


The Death of the Author

by ScribeofArda



Series: Ceci n'est pas un espion [3]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, And their pasts aren't letting go just yet, And what they've done in their pasts, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arts Professor AU, But it's a lot harder than they thought it was going to be, But it's all going to be okay in the end, Coming to terms with trauma, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Alcohol Abuse, Modern AU, Napoleon and Illya are retired and living in London, Past Abuse, Realisation of Past Abuse, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-19
Updated: 2020-06-08
Packaged: 2020-12-24 07:36:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 128,711
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21095810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ScribeofArda/pseuds/ScribeofArda
Summary: 'Are you going to come back?''Let's not make any promises we know we might not be able to keep.'A story about stories, and what it means to leave behind a legacy.





	1. Poplar Fluff

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Somedrunkpirate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Somedrunkpirate/gifts).
**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It’s been a while.
> 
> Firstly, if you’re coming back after so long since the end of Narrative Casualties, hi again! Thanks for sticking around! If you’re new- hi! This story won’t make much sense at all without reading Narrative Casualties first, so you might want to pop over there before coming back here. I appreciate it’s been a while since that story was published, and not everyone has the time to go back and reread, so I’ve put a summary of what happened in the end notes in case you need reminding! This story jumps in only a few days after the end of that story, and it is going to be Proper Long.
> 
> Secondly, I know this is a fairly small fandom now, but I am still so immensely grateful to every single person who reads this fic, who leaves kudos and especially anyone who leaves a comment, those emails I get saying there’s a comment waiting for me really do make my day. You’re all fab, and I hope you enjoy this story.
> 
> Thirdly, this story would not exist without somedrunkpirate. At all. Thank you so so much for listening to my rants about writer’s block, giving me impromptu lessons in art history (why did I base a whole series around art when I read chemistry?) and generally kicking me into gear when I had no idea where this story was going. I’m pretty damn proud of how this ended up, and a big part of that is down to you, so thank you.

Their footsteps echo on the marble floors. The two of them are walking slightly out of time, enough that the sound is just irritating enough to anyone who is listening. People step out of their way. Younger men with freshly ironed uniforms snap salutes as they pass, older men with medals pinned to their breasts merely incline their heads in acknowledgement.

Markos is laughing at one young soldier who nearly falls over with how quickly he snaps to attention. “At ease, soldier,” he says with a grin. He turns to Illya, winking at him as they step around the corner and into another ornate hallway, marble walls and light streaming through high windows, making the gold trimmings gleam in that way Illya has always secretly loved.

“I swear, they get younger every year,” he says, laughing again. “We were never that young, were we?”

“No,” Illya replies. He stares at Markos’ face. “We couldn’t have been.”

Markos keeps talking, their voices low in the great expanse of the Kremlin, and Illya can’t look away from his face. “There are new recruits in, you know,” Markos says, glancing out of one of the windows that they walk past. It’s snowing outside, a light flurry whirling up against the walls. The shoulders of Illya’s uniform are still damp from where it had melted on him as he stepped inside.

He wants to stop and watch the snow fall over the city, but he knows they have somewhere to be.

“They’re about the same as they always are,” Markos says. “But there are a couple from the spetsnaz. None from our old unit, but then we can’t have everything.”

Illya nods, because he knows that it’s the point in the conversation where he does that. “We won’t have much to do with them anyway,” he replies.

Markos laughs again. He’s always laughing, especially in these halls. Illya remembers walking through them countless times. Sometimes he’d be on his own, dress uniform stiff on his shoulders, and sometimes with the people he trained with, the ones he counted as family when he had nothing else, walking beside him. They always used to time their footsteps so they were slightly out of sync. They knew it annoyed the politicians who haunted this place, their faces changing as loyalties wavered and reformed and wavered again. Generations of them went past as he and Markos walked down these halls.

“The old Commander is in town,” Markos is saying. “He has some free time tomorrow night. I’ll get in touch with anyone from the unit up here right now. We’ll go to that bar, you know, the one with the really good vodka, and catch up with him.”

Illya nods again. He can see the snow falling in flurries outside, the light coming through the windows pale and white. They turn another corner, and the sound of their footsteps are briefly swallowed by plush red carpet.

He thinks he remembers this conversation, but he thinks it shouldn’t be snowing outside. He’s pretty sure he remembers stopping by one of the windows and looking out across Moscow, to see the poplar trees shedding their seeds in clouds of white fluff that always carpets the city, the ones that make _bless you_ a better greeting than _hello_ when outside.

Now that he looks closely, maybe it is just the poplar fluff, falling in flurries across the city and blanketing Moscow. It’s always a beautiful thing to watch. He should have stopped to watch it more.

He’s stopped at one of the windows. He’s not sure when he did that. Markos stands at his shoulder, that grin on his face as they watch the city. Up here, high above the streets, all the people hurrying through the snow look so small.

“I miss you,” he says. He doesn’t know why he said it.

Markos laughs, his face smooth and whole. “Oh, Illya,” he says, looking over at him. “Since when were we taught how to miss people? We should keep going, if we’re going to make it on time.”

Illya tries again. “I’m sorry I got you killed,” he says. “I’m sorry that I left you. I shouldn’t have left you to die.”

Markos grins, leaning against the column at the side of the window in a way just insolent enough to annoy any bureaucrats walking past. “Always so maudlin, Illya,” he says. He pushes away from the wall, clapping Illya on the shoulder. “Come on, we’re going to be late and then one of us will get chewed out because of it, and I’m not adverse to pushing you into the fire if I have to.”

Illya knows his response. “Says the person took all the blame for the mess hall incident, even when I was covered in flour as well.”

“We promised we’d never talk about the mess hall incident of 1998,” Markos says with a laugh. “Come _on_, Illya. Stop daydreaming and let’s go.”

They turn and start walking down the hall again, footsteps echoing on the marble floors. “Think it’s a new assignment,” Markos asks, “or are they still threatening us with Siberia over the last one?”

Illya knows the answer. He knows that this was the meeting where they, and three other agents, were assigned the mission that turned into five long months of trying to find an arms dealer and preventing multiple suicide bombings, the five agents trading off on who got to be in the middle of nowhere in Iraq, trying to find and infiltrate a weapons plant, and who was running down terrorist cells in Yemen.

He can’t bring himself to tell Markos that.

There are a few young men waiting outside the doors to the meeting room, and they all snap to attention as soon as they see Illya and Markos approach. Markos grins. “Want to mess with the new recruits?” he murmurs to Illya.

Illya doesn’t answer. He can’t answer, not when he can see Alexi standing there, still standing at attention. He doesn’t remember if he was really there in that meeting, part of that spetsnaz group sent with them to help, but he’s here now. He looks so young, face smooth and whole and showing only a little bit of nervousness.

“Ah, you’re spetsnaz,” Markos says as they approach. “That’s a little better. I’m Agent Chernyak, and this is Agent Kuryakin.” There’s a murmur that runs through the men at Illya’s name, and Illya sees Alexi’s eyes widen just a little.

“Sir,” Alexi says, still at attention. Markos laughs.

“Take it down a notch, lieutenant,” he says with a grin. “We won’t eat you. Maybe.”

“In the stories we’ve heard, you do,” Alexi says. “Sir.”

Markos laughs again. Illya misses that laugh, feels it ache somewhere deep in his bones, below the scars and marks left on them. “I like this one,” he says to Illya. “We’ll make something of him.” Alexi laughs at that. He looks so young.

Illya turns to Markos. He wants to say something, wants to try and make sure he knows how sorry he is for what happened, to stop Alexi now before everything that has happened happens. He wants to pull Markos into a hug, know that he’s there, alive and whole and not shot dead on a mission because he was trying to do what Illya has become. But the marble hallway is blurring around him, colours fading until he can no longer see Alexi, no longer see Markos or his grin.

He can still hear their laughter, though, long after all he can see is the poplar fluff falling in flurries across the city.

0-o-0-o-0

The room is dark when he wakes. For a few seconds he doesn’t know where he is. He longs for the bright hallways of the Kremlin, the echoes of footsteps on marble, Markos’ laugh as he leans against the window to watch the poplar fluff fall. He wants the men he served beside around him, the ones that he trained with, spent hours in the middle of the night with, on sentry duty together where edges blur and soften. He wants to see Markos again, sit with him and a glass of vodka in his hand and watch Moscow pass from the bar window.

Without meaning to, his breath hitches. An old grief wells up from somewhere buried deep, dredged up by Alexi’s face and Markos’ laugh and those marble hallways he used to walk down so often.

Illya takes a breath, and then another, staring out at nothing in the darkness of their bedroom. He can hear Napoleon’s quiet breathing from the pillow next to him. Napoleon’s arm is slung around his waist, fingers still tangled in the hem of Illya’s T-shirt, and Illya gently smooths his thumb down the back of his hand. He can feel the small nicks and scars across Napoleon’s knuckles, ones that predate even him.

There are a thousand thoughts crowding his mind, lingering sounds of Markos’ laugh, of Alexi’s voice when he was young and unscathed. He doesn’t know how he could ever put them into words.

Illya shakes himself, sitting up and dislodging Napoleon from where he’s sleeping curled up against him.

“Where are you going?” Napoleon murmurs as he slides out of bed. “Peril?”

“I’m fine,” Illya just says. “Go back to sleep, Cowboy.”

Napoleon hums and rolls over, falling back to sleep easily enough. Illya sits on the edge of the bed. For a moment he wants to wake Napoleon up, to talk until his voice is hoarse, but he doesn’t even have any words he could say. Napoleon doesn’t normally mind being woken up for something like this. They don’t have much shame in having nightmares now, they’re far too used to the way PTSD chooses to manifest itself from under their skin, but this, this is a different type of shame.

Illya can’t keep the sound of Markos’ laughter out of his head.

Laika looks confused when he comes downstairs, but she wags her tail anyway, trailing Illya as he goes into the kitchen. Illya briefly reaches down to ruffle her ears as he heads for the kettle on the counter. Coffee is a terrible idea, with the remnants of the dream clinging to him, but tea is always good.

God help him, he’s starting to sound British.

The kettle boils, and he goes through the mechanical motions of making a cup of tea without really thinking about it. He never used to drink tea, not before UNCLE and Waverly’s endless stash of the damn stuff.

In Moscow there was never enough time for something as mundane as a cup of tea. They just drank coffee on the go for the caffeine and put up with the scalded tongues. Sometimes they would trade energy sachets amongst themselves when it looked like someone needed it. Someone always had a couple in their pockets, or stashed away in a desk drawer.

It had gotten a little better in the SVR. Some missions had actually been bearable, those ones where Illya had put on a tux and sat under chandelier light to maintain his cover. He’d never loved those sorts of missions, always preferred ones where he didn’t have to keep a cover or try and charm a mark, but the food had, sometimes, made it worth it.

Markos used to love them, always better at maintaining a cover than he’d ever been. He’d used to tease Illya about it, tell him to pretend that the champagne glass in his hand was a primed grenade, or that his tux was a new type of combat gear. Illya had always responded with some snide remark about Markos’ range results compared to his, or how he was so good at mimicking accents he didn’t sound like a real Russian soldier anymore, like those the overzealous little cadets who ran around thinking they were owed the world because they were wearing a uniform. That one always used to make Markos laugh.

When Illya next takes a breath, he realises the tea in front of him is cold. Laika is nosing at him, tail wagging. The sun looks like it’s just about beginning to brave the London streets.

Illya sighs, and tips the tea down the sink. He puts the kettle on again.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon wakes up to a cold half of the bed when he rolls over, and it takes him a moment to breathe through the panic and remember what happened earlier this morning. Illya is still here. He’s just downstairs. Alexi is in custody, back in Russia for two weeks now. They’re not in danger anymore.

When he comes downstairs Illya is sitting at the kitchen table, reading the newspaper with a cup of tea. He pushes another mug towards Napoleon, perfectly to his tastes as always. “Thanks, Peril,” Napoleon murmurs, taking a sip. It’s a little lukewarm, but he doesn’t say anything. “Anything interesting in the news?”

“China is threatening US in South China Sea again,” Illya mutters. “And some financial news on South American trade deals. None of these editors seem to realise impact it will have on US strategy in Central America.”

“Well, the Financial Times can’t get everything right,” Napoleon says wryly. He pulls some bread out of the bread tin. “They don’t have the trade secrets you do. Have you had breakfast?”If he forgets what happened in the middle of the night, the tension that has been hanging over their heads ever since Alexi, it almost seems like a normal morning. Laika is getting under his feet as he cuts slices of bread for toast, begging for scraps even though Illya is strict about not feeding her from the table. Illya is flicking through the FT, reading the editorials, and if it was a normal morning Napoleon would poke fun at him for disagreeing with them on minutiae of government strategy, tell him to write in if it bothers him that much.

Illya is quiet, though, mug of tea seemingly forgotten at his elbow. Napoleon pauses as he butters some toast. “You didn’t come back to bed last night,” he says quietly. “Everything okay?”

“I’m fine,” Illya says, turning a page of the newspaper.

Napoleon knows that he’s lying. He fell asleep fairly quickly after Illya got out of bed, but there have been plenty of nights like this since Alexi. He recognises the aftermath.

“I know you’re too tall to stretch out on the sofa properly, but it’s not too bad to crash on,” Napoleon says, trying for a soft approach. He glances over his shoulder at the living room. “Maybe we should get one of those big corner ones instead, that would be easier to sleep on.”

“You can’t fix every problem by throwing money at it,” Illya mutters over the rim of his mug, not looking up from the paper.

Napoleon tries not to sigh. If this was any other morning, then he would make some sarcastic comment about Illya’s views on capitalism, and Illya would say something sarcastic back that would make Napoleon grin and get distracted by another debate until he’s late for work again.

Now, though, Napoleon doesn’t know what to say. Alexi hangs around the house in the empty spaces. Illya wakes up in the middle of the night with Russian on his lips, and Napoleon doesn’t know what to say to stop him getting up, to keep him in bed and drive the nightmares away.

“What do you want for dinner?” he asks instead. “Or shall we order in?”

“Your choice,” Illya just says, turning his attention back to the paper. He glances up when Napoleon doesn’t say anything else. “What?” he asks. His voice is just that little more brittle than usual.

Napoleon makes himself shake his head. Illya isn’t usually picky about food, usually deferring to Napoleon’s preferences. Gaby thinks it’s because he didn’t grow up with much choice in what he ate, like she did in the poor part of eastern Berlin, and that being given a website full of restaurants paralyses him with choice much like it did to her when she first came to London. Napoleon just thinks Illya’s years in the spetsnaz have burned out most of his taste buds, though he definitely has a sweet tooth that he’s unsuccessfully tried to hide over the years. But he’s been better, recently. He’s been making an effort.

Napoleon glances at his watch. “I’d better get moving,” he says. “What are your plans for today?”

Illya shrugs, and Napoleon rolls his eyes. “Right, silly of me to ask,” he says. “I have to go to work. I’ll pick up something on the way back. And then maybe we can talk without this passive aggressive silent treatment I’m getting right now?”

It’s not the best thing to say to Illya, still shaken after whatever dream he had, and Napoleon knows it as soon as the words leave his lips. “Dammit, I’m sorry, Peril,” he says straightaway, but Illya just drains the last of his tea, folds the paper up and gets to his feet.

“You’re going to be late, Cowboy,” he just says as he brushes past him. “I’ll take Laika out for a walk.”

Laika predictably jumps to her feet as soon as she hears her name and _walk_ in the same sentence, dancing around Illya as he puts some shoes on. Napoleon can still see the slightest of trembles in Illya’s hands as he ties his laces, how it takes him a few more seconds than it should to get them tied. “Peril,” he says softly.

Illya looks up. Something flits over his face too quickly for Napoleon to catch, and then he’s crossing the living room to where Napoleon is leaning against the kitchen counter. Napoleon barely has time to put down his mug of tea before Illya is pulling him close, pressing a swift kiss to his lips. He leans against Napoleon, pressing their foreheads together. “Love you, Cowboy,” he murmurs.

Napoleon kisses him again. “Love you too, Peril,” he replies. “I’ll see you later, okay?”

Illya whistles for Laika, and then the house is quiet as the door shuts behind him. “Shit,” Napoleon mutters, running a hand over his face. He reaches for his mug of tea, realising too late that it’s gone cold. A brief thought involving the tea and the microwave across the kitchen crosses his mind, and he’s mildly disgusted with himself for even considering it. He flicks the kettle on instead, and tips the cold tea down the sink.

0-o-0-o-0

It’s cold outside, autumn being to creep over the city, and Napoleon doesn’t even think before he gets in the car and turns the heating up.

Beijing is a world away from the London Tube, but he can still remember the taste of pollution on his tongue as he’d frantically searched for a possible bomb hidden in the labyrinth of Beijing’s subway. There were far more people there, but standing packed in like sardines on the Tube makes it hard to remember that, when all he can think about is fighting against a never-ending tide of panicking civilians all too eager to turn a rush into a stampede.

The Institute is just beginning to wake up as he gets in and makes it to his office, the first of the students heading in through the doors. Napoleon avoids them easily, smiling at the ones he knows and internally laughing at the way the ones who have obviously heard about him skirt around him with embarrassed smiles and blushing cheeks.

He breathes in and thinks briefly that he is just able to taste canvas on his tongue, the weight of all the history that this building holds.

There’s someone leaning against the wall outside his office. “Morning, Cassie,” Napoleon says as he unlocks his office door. “Been waiting long?”

“Only a few minutes,” Cassie says as she follows him into his office and dumps her bag on the table that Napoleon hates but can’t be bothered to replace because it would mean fighting with the administrative people again. “Now, I have had some caffeine-fuelled thoughts about my research that might be insane but also might be pure genius, and I need you to tell me which they are.”

“You assume I can tell the difference,” Napoleon says, sitting down behind his desk and pulling out his laptop to check his emails. “Give me your timeline.”

“You assume that a timeline exists,” Cassie replies with a grin. “Right, so this all started with a brief foray into Gentileschi. I was only going to mention her briefly when talking about the disparity between how men and women see certain events, but then I got thinking more about what women go through has such a huge influence on how they see the world, and I was thinking of going further down that road within the sphere of my existing research, but I don’t want to take away from the other influences, you know?”

Napoleon frowns at his laptop as he deletes the usual pointless emails. “Have you read the essay by that Italian professor who’s studying Gentileschi in Rome?” he asks. “It’s in Italian, but I’m pretty sure I could call her up and ask her for a summary of sorts that I can translate. Or I could do a rough translation for you of it, if there isn’t one out there.”

Cassie shrugs. “Maybe, if it’s necessary,” she replies. “But you do not have time to translate a whole essay. Anyway, first there’s this whole other thing I was thinking about that could fit in really well with the second section here.”

Napoleon loses track of time as he works with Cassie, and it isn’t until his phone chimes, reminding him that he has a lecture in fifteen minutes, that he sits back and stops. “That’s probably enough for today,” he tells her. “Do you want a cup of tea?”

Cassie shakes her head, leaning back in her chair. “I feel like I should be the one offering you one,” she just says. “Are you okay?”

Napoleon frowns at her. After all the events of the London riots and Cassie ending up staying at theirs because it was too dangerous to get back to hers, she knows more about him and Illya than most people here, but he’s not sure what she’s implying. “I’m fine,” he says slowly.

Cassie gives him a look. “You were away for a week suddenly, and when you came back you looked exhausted,” she says mildly. “You still look tired. And you obviously weren’t ill over that week, because you kept favouring your left side whenever you got up or sat down, and honestly, I noticed the concealed bruise on your jaw that was just about to fade.” She crosses her arms. “You don’t have to tell me what happened, god knows I’m not entitled to that, but I’m just asking if you’re okay.”

Napoleon stares at her. “God, I should just let Gaby recruit you,” he says eventually. He doesn’t really know what else to say.

“I’m sure she’ll try to lure me away from here with money and free food as soon as I’ve finished my PhD, but that’s not the point,” Cassie says. “Are you okay?”

Napoleon can feel his jaw clenching without his permission. He shrugs. “It was a late night last night,” he says. “Illya didn’t have a great night, I think, and it just…carried over to this morning.” He shakes his head. “I don’t have time to explain everything that happened a couple of weeks ago, and I don’t really want to go through it all at the moment.” He sees the concern evident on Cassie’s face, and dredges up what should be a reassuring smile. “We’ll be fine,” he says. “Illya and I. It’s just…knocked us for six a little.”

“That’s a cricket saying, you’re really going native,” Cassie says with a smirk. “You should get going to your lecture, if you don’t want to arrive late and scare the freshers.”

“Freshers exist to be scared,” Napoleon mutters, but he grabs his bag and his laptop, shuffling through the notes on his table until he finds the right handouts for the lecture. “Drop me an email if you do want me to get in touch with that professor, though. I think she’s a friend of a friend, of sorts.”

“And by that, do you mean she’s a friend of another professor, or do you know her from…your days of liberating art from the confines of safes?” Cassie asks. The grin on her face just spreads as Napoleon glares at her; after years at the Institute, and nearly two years with Napoleon as her supervisor, she has become mostly immune to the looks that used to send young agents cowering.

Napoleon sighs, and locks the office door behind him as they head out of his office. He really has lost his touch.

Looking over his shoulder had once been second nature.

He’s had a long, bloody stretch of life that was devoted to teaching him that paranoia isn’t really paranoia if they are actually out to get him. Even before he’d run from the army and just kept running because it was survival or nothing else, he’d known to look over his shoulder, to keep watch on who is around him in case they have a bug or a knife or a bomb strapped to their chest.

Apparently these few years, the ones spent in a townhouse in London with a proper job, a husband and a dog, are all it takes to undo it to the point of ruin.

There’s more work to be done when he gets back to his office, emails to be answered and final year students to gently nudge in the right direction for their theses. And then there are more lectures to teach and a workshop in the Tate, some of his own research to follow through on. Napoleon doesn’t even notice when the lights in the library turn on, or when most of the students grab their bags and head home. He’s far too deep into translating some old manuscripts that the Institute has had squirrelled away for years and only just managed to get restored.

Hamilton is playing on repeat. Napoleon mouths along to _My Shot_ as he translates, and only accidentally starts writing the lyrics down instead of the translation once.

A cleaner wanders past. “Evening, Solo,” she says. “You’re here late.”

“Evening, Malka,” Napoleon replies, glancing up from the books briefly. “How’s the wife?”

“Doing well, thanks,” Malka replies. She starts dusting the bookshelf nearby. “Thanks for the physio recommendation, by the way. Her back is doing much better, and we can claim it on the NHS as well.”

“No worries,” Napoleon murmurs. He turns another page, adjusting the light to try and make out the scribbled writing in the margins. “They helped Illya out a lot when his knee acted up. They’re very good.”

“Is Illya out of the country again, then?” Malka asks as she empties the bin at the end of the table. “You shouldn’t stay so late just to avoid an empty house, you know.”

At that, Napoleon looks up. “What time is it?” he asks. He reaches for his phone, only to find the low battery sign flashing at him accusingly. “Shit,” he mutters, scrambling in his bag for a charger and glancing at his watch. “Shit, it’s nearly nine. Illya is going to be pissed at me.”

His phone finally turns on, and Napoleon hits speed dial before even bothering to look at the messages. “Peril, I’m sorry,” he says quickly as soon as Illya picks up. “I’m still at the Institute, I’m fine. I just got carried away with work and lost track of time, and my phone ran out of charge.” Illya says nothing, and Napoleon scrubs a hand over his face. “Do you still want me to pick up some food? I can go to that Korean place you like.”

“I already ate,” Illya says. “There’s some pasta leftover. If you want it.”

“I’m already packing up my stuff,” Napoleon promises. He grabs his bag and shoves everything in haphazardly. Malka carefully moves the books out of his way with a quiet promise to put them back in the right places. “I’ll be home in twenty. I’m sorry, Peril. I really did just lose track of time.”

There’s a long pause. “I’ll see you soon, then,” Illya says eventually.

“Love you, Peril,” Napoleon says as he waves a distracted goodbye to Malka and hurries out of the library. He tries not to let any desperation leech into his voice.

“Love you too, Cowboy,” Illya replies automatically. He hangs up, and Napoleon listens to the dial tone for a good few seconds before he remembers to put his phone away.

Traffic in London is easy, this late in the evening and in the middle of the week, and if Napoleon puts his foot down a little and breaks the speed limits in a few places, then nobody needs to know. He’s pulling up in front of the house and running up the front steps in just over eighteen minutes.

Illya is sat in the kitchen when he gets in, in the middle of turning the chess board. “Pasta is in the fridge,” he says, not looking up. “I used up last of that sauce you made.”

Napoleon eats quickly, watching Illya play chess against himself. “The white side is going to lose,” he predicts around a mouthful of pasta.

Five minutes later, and Illya is knocking over the black king. “You did that on purpose,” Napoleon says.

Ilya rolls his eyes. “Of course, Cowboy,” he says. He sets the board up again.

“Want a rival?” Napoleon asks. “I can’t promise I’ll be any better than I was last time, but it’ll be a little more interesting.”

Illya hesitates before picking up the board and moving it to the coffee table.

Napoleon holds back a sigh of relief. He grabs the scotch, pouring out a couple of fingers in two glasses. “I’ll take white, I always last about five more minutes with that.”

“As if it will make any difference, Cowboy,” Illya says with a slight smirk, but he turns the white side towards Napoleon anyway.

They’re only ten minutes in when Napoleon realises it’s obvious that he’s going to lose. “You’ve been dragging it out, haven’t you?” he accuses. “You could have wiped the floor with me after about a minute.”

Illya smirks, and moves his bishop into a position that Napoleon had not seen coming, and means he has to re-evaluate just what he knows about chess. “You are very predictable, Cowboy,” he says. “You never did have a head for strategy.”

“Excuse you,” Napoleon responds automatically. “I always had great inventive flair. You just...filled in the unimportant details.”

“Those unimportant details stopped you getting shot multiple times,” Illya retorts. He seems to realise what he’s said, and switches his attention back to the chess board. “Anyway.”

Napoleon studies the board. “Oh, fuck it,” he says abruptly, and he knocks his king over. “There. I am defeated. I am yours to do with what you wish.”

Illya glances up from the board. “Is that a promise?” he asks slyly.

Napoleon honestly hadn’t been angling for that reaction, but he lets a grin slip onto his face. “Well, it is if you want it to be,” he replies. He lounges back in his chair, letting his legs fall apart just a little, and arches a brow at Illya.

Illya gets to his feet and all but prowls over to Napoleon. “Mine to command,” he murmurs, standing between Napoleon’s legs. He strokes a thumb down the line of Napoleon’s jaw, pressing lightly on his lower lip until Napoleon parts his lips. Napoleon reaches out, stroking one hand down Illya’s waist. Illya catches it, gripping onto Napoleon’s wrist. “Did I tell you to do that?” he asks.

Napoleon smirks up at him. “Maybe I’m not very good at following the rules,” he murmurs, breath ghosting over Illya’s thumb still pressing on his lips. Illya’s eyes darken.

Napoleon isn’t sure which one of them moves first. Illya pulls him up as he pulls Illya down and they meet somewhere in the middle. Illya’s lips are warm against his and Napoleon pulls him down until Illya is bracing himself on the chair over him, one hand cupping the back of Napoleon’s neck. Napoleon arches under his touch, gripping Illya’s shirt and tugging him down towards him.

The chair creaks ominously and wobbles underneath him. Napoleon laughs against Illya’s lips. “Let’s not break another chair, Peril,” he murmurs. “Sofa?”

Illya pulls Napoleon up by the back of his neck and an iron grip on his shirt. He doesn’t break the kiss as they stumble back, Napoleon tugging them sideways to narrowly avoid the coffee table. Illya falls back as he hits the sofa, staring up at Napoleon with dark eyes. He licks his lips.

Napoleon can’t really help himself. He goes willingly as Illya pulls him down, kissing him again. Illya pulls at him until Napoleon gets the hint and falls onto the sofa on top of him, sitting on his lap as he kisses him. One hand clutches at the back of Illya’s neck, pulling him up into a searing kiss.

Illya’s hand slides under Napoleon’s shirt, making him shiver as fingers run up his back. “We’re too old to do this on a sofa,” Napoleon mutters against Illya’s lips. “But I’m willing if you are.”

Illya’s answer is to undo the buttons on Napoleon’s shirt, running a hand up his chest. Napoleon grins, and kisses Illya again, rocking into his touch. Illya’s breath hitches, and Napoleon swallows his breathless moan with a hunger he tries not to believe is desperate.

They make it off the sofa when Illya’s ribs start to protest at the position, shedding clothes across the bedroom as they reach hungrily for each other. This is easier. This, the map of each other’s bodies, the scars and muscles, the way to draw a moan out until they are shaking with desire; they both know this well.

It’s easy to believe nothing is wrong when Napoleon kisses Illya and Illya kisses him back, pulling him close against him to make Napoleon gasp into his mouth. It is easy to believe that things aren’t crumbling apart when Illya knows just how to make Napoleon arch against the bed and grab at the sheets. Napoleon kisses him again, Illya’s lips hot against his, and for a few moments it just feels right.

0-o-0-o-0

Something wakes him. It takes Napoleon a moment to crawl out of sleep, blinking against the darkness. His skin feels sticky against the sheets, from where he was too tired to do anything but fall asleep next to Illya. He rolls over, and Illya shifts next to him.

He realises what woke him up when Illya shifts again, a soft murmur slipping through his lips. Napoleon rolls over. There’s just enough light from London outside filtering through the curtains that he can see the outline of Illya’s shoulder. He’s shaking ever so slightly.

Another murmur slips through his lips, and Napoleon can’t kid himself into hearing anything other than _Alexi_. He sighs softly, propping himself up on his elbow. Waking Illya will probably lead to another cold bed and Illya not sleeping downstairs again. But he still can’t watch Illya sleep through another nightmare without doing anything.

Napoleon lets himself fall back to his pillow, gently enough to not wake Illya. After all these years, he’s had plenty of practice. He rolls over and carefully drapes an arm over Illya’s waist. Illya shifts, but doesn’t seem to wake. Napoleon gradually shifts closer until he’s close enough for his breath to ghost over the back of Illya’s neck.

It takes a few minutes, but Illya doesn’t murmur Alexi’s name again and Napoleon tries to relax. Illya doesn’t talk about these dreams, the ones that have him whispering Alexi’s name into the pillow or calling out for Markos, but Napoleon knows that they can’t quite be called nightmares.

He wonders which incarnation of Alexi Illya sees when he’s dreaming. He only knew him as a madman, twisted with grief and pointing a gun at them, but Illya knew him years ago, before any of this was even within the realms of possibility.

He’s just about to doze off again when Illya stirs. This time, it’s unintelligible Russian spilling from his lips, quiet enough that Napoleon can’t make out any individual words. “Shhh,” Napoleon breathes against the back of Illya’s neck. He tightens his grip ever so slightly, letting his fingers press against Illya’s torso. “Shhh, Peril. You’re okay.”

He keeps murmuring nonsense, his voice barely a breath against the back of Illya’s neck as his mind wanders. He used to lie awake and plan lecture courses, draft chapters of a publication in his head. Now everything is fractured, and he can’t concentrate on one thing for more than a few seconds before Alexi somehow disrupts it all.

Napoleon realises he’s grinding his teeth. He forces himself to stop, breathing out slowly as Illya mumbles Alexi’s name over and over again in his sleep.

It’s too perfect. This townhouse in London, the job that he actually enjoys, the dog to curl up on the sofa with him when Illya isn’t looking, even the husband that somehow he has managed to keep. He doesn’t deserve any of it, not really. Even this house was bought with the money he still has hidden away from his stealing days, stashed in various banks and deposit boxes around the world.

It’s like a poorly constructed dream, or maybe some elaborate hoax. Any moment now, and someone is going to pull back the curtain and yell _gotcha_. Any minute now, and all of this will get taken away from him.

It’s not like he did much to earn it anyway. He spent years spent only caring about how much money the next piece of art would get, stealing just because he could and because it was fun. And it had been, most of the time. Evading the agencies and marks and other thieves all after him, carefully playing people against each other and cultivating a network until it stretched across most of the world. He’d had people in every continent except Antarctica, and only then because there was very little of value to him in the middle of a scientific research station.

It had been fun, and a damn sight better than the war he’d turned his back on.

Illya murmurs something again, too low for Napoleon to make out and possibly not in a language he even speaks. “It’s okay, Peril,” he breathes. “It’s going to be okay.”

He thinks that the lie should taste like ashes. Something poetic. Something better than just that hollow feeling sitting at the base of his throat.

He’s just so tired. He’s so tired of it all.

Slowly, Illya quiets. Napoleon stays awake for a while, just to make sure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Narrative Casualties summary:  
Napoleon and Illya are both retired from UNCLE, living in London where Napoleon is a professor in art history at the Cortauld Institute. An old friend of Illya’s from the spetsnaz and SVR, Markos, dies, and Illya goes to his funeral in Moscow, which worries Napoleon. Illya gets abducted one night, Napoleon goes to Gaby, who is now Director of UNCLE. They track Illya down, but Napoleon walks into a trap and offers himself up when he realises. He gets taken, and Illya gets dumped at the front door of UNCLE. Napoleon antagonises his abductor, whilst Illya gets information from Oleg in exchange for a favour to owe him. The person is Alexi, who has decided to try and ruin them because Markos died trying to copy their stories, and Alexi blames them. Illya goes after him and finds Napoleon. He nearly kills Alexi when Alexi tries to shoot them, but Napoleon stays his hand.
> 
> Thanks so much for reading this first chapter! I’m probably going to publish another chapter next Tuesday (if I remember) and then sort out a weekly posting schedule, depending on uni and my masters project and life in general.


	2. Aching Ribs

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all the amazing responses to the first chapter! I'm so glad to see a bunch of familiar names even after such a long break, you're all fab. As a thank you, let me slowly rip your hearts out with this fic. It's going to get a whole lot worse before it gets better.

Illya uncorks the bottle of wine and hands it over to Napoleon. “What time is Gaby coming?” he asks as he gets out three glasses from the cupboard.

“Seven, I think,” Napoleon says over his shoulder. He pours a generous measure of wine into the pan, considers it, and then adds a little more. “If the world doesn’t explode and she cancels on us again.” He hands Illya back the bottle. “It’s a little cold to drink yet. Let it breathe for a while.”

“I know how to treat wine properly, Cowboy,” Illya remarks. “I am married to you, after all.”

Napoleon huffs a brief laugh. His back is to Illya, but Illya can still see the subtle tension across the line of his shoulders, the way his head is tilted an obvious tell, if someone knows where to look. He waits him out, rolling a chess piece between his fingers. Napoleon is many things, but keeping quiet when there’s something on his mind tends not to be one of them.

Illya can tell exactly when Napoleon decides to say something about three seconds before he does. “Are you going back to the dojo tomorrow night?” he asks over his shoulder. “It’s been a while.”

“My ribs are still too tender to go,” Illya replies automatically. It’s the answer he’s been giving ever since Napoleon first asked.

Napoleon stops stirring, setting the lid on the pan and turning the heat down. “You could always just teach,” he says. “They’d understand if you said you couldn’t actually do anything, or get someone else to demonstrate.”

Illya shakes his head. “Better if I don’t,” he just replies.

It’s not that he doesn’t want to go. It’s just that every time he thinks about it, every time he thinks about showing someone the best way to escape from a chokehold or how to disarm a knife, the vulnerable points on someone’s body, he can feel his hands begin to tremble. He can almost smell the training rooms back in Moscow, the damp smell of mould mixed with the tang of sweat and blood on the floor. He’d spent hours, days of his life being thrown around those rooms, spitting blood and hauling himself back up to his feet, only because he’d quickly learnt that people’s feet hurt worse than their fists.

“You’re just hanging around the house all day,” Napoleon says, and Illya jolts out of his thoughts. “Why not come into the Institute tomorrow for lunch? There’s a nice café in Somerset House.”

Illya pauses. He doesn’t quite know why he does, why he’s never stepped foot in the Institute since Napoleon started teaching there. If he thinks about it too long, he starts thinking about how his past crept forward and slowly corrupted everything that they have together, how Alexi hangs in the empty spaces between them. The Institute is one of the few places that he’s never touched, one of the few things he and all the things lurking behind his shoulder haven’t managed to damage yet.

And then his hands start trembling, and he stops thinking about it.

“I was going to take Laika out,” he says. “For a proper walk. She’s going a little stir crazy in the house.”

He can’t put words to everything else crowding his brain, not even with the disappointed look on Napoleon’s face. “Some other time,” he offers.

Napoleon hangs his head. “Christ, Peril,” he mutters. “Could you even try to pretend like you mean that?”

“And what’s that supposed to mean?” Illya asks.

Napoleon rubs a hand over his face. “I just…I’m tired, Peril,” he says. “I’m so fucking tired of this, of constantly stepping around each other and not talking about the fact that everything got turned upside down and neither of us have any clue how to fix it.” He sighs. “You have never once come inside the Institute. Not once. Don’t think I haven’t noticed. I just didn’t think it was a big thing, or that you’d tell me when you wanted to, but now?” He laughs bitterly. “Now I don’t even know what to think.”

“It’s not like it’s easy for me either,” Illya snaps. “When was the last time you made it home before seven, or even bothered to tell me that you were going to be back late? I gave up on calling to remind you two weeks ago, Cowboy, and you haven’t even noticed.”

“So what if I’m busy?” Napoleon asks him. He turns back to the stove, stirring at the risotto with a little more force than necessary. “I have a job, Illya. An actual paying job with responsibilities. You know, like normal people have? So yeah, I’m late sometimes. Sorry.” He slams the lid back on the pan. “Just come to the fucking Institute tomorrow, Illya. It’s not that big a deal.”

“Stop it,” Illya snaps. “I’m not you. Stop trying to push me forwards when you can’t even admit that you’re not going anywhere.” Napoleon scoffs, and Illya glares at him. “You are avoiding everything by hiding out at work, burying yourself in your research or whatever you can find there, just so you don’t have to come home and actually tell the truth to yourself about what happened.”

Napoleon glances away from him, like he can’t even bear to look at his face, and Illya suddenly feels sick to his stomach. He can’t help but see Alexi’s face when he looks in the mirror, but he’d never even imagined that maybe Napoleon might see the same thing.

He tries to reign his temper in, tries to breathe and stop his hands curling into fists, but he’s fighting a losing battle. “You’re no better than me,” he says shortly. “You’re worse, actually. Just lying to yourself.”

“Bullshit,” Napoleon spits. “You think I don’t know what we’ve done? You think I don’t lie awake at night thinking of all the ways the stupid shit we’ve done has hurt people we never even knew about? This was our fault, Illya! I’m just trying to keep a handle on it so that I don’t lose my job or mess up this life any more than we already have.”

Illya feels himself take a breath. There’s a faint buzzing in his ears. “And you’re trying to pretend like nothing has changed,” he hears himself saying. “Like you can just go back to work and everything will be the same.”

“You’re just shutting yourself inside and avoiding everything, because god forbid you actually interact with anyone else ever again,” Napoleon snaps. “I knew you like avoiding your problems, but god, Peril, this takes the cake. Just come to the fucking Institute!”

“Because that will solve all our problems!” Illya shouts back. “Because that will magically fix everything!”

“Well maybe it’s a start,” Napoleon retorts. “Instead of skulking around the house like one touch is going to break everything, obsessing over Alexi but not doing a single thing about it.”

“I’m not obsessing,” Illya says automatically. He can taste the lie on his lips. From the look of his face, Napoleon can hear it too.

“And you say I’m the one lying to myself,” he says bitterly. “You know that I hear you at night? I can hear you calling Alexi’s name.”

“So?” Illya asks. He tries to keep his voice under control, tries not to let his hands tremble or hear Markos’ laughter echo in the hallways. It doesn’t work.

“So he tore our lives apart,” Napoleon snaps. “And I lie awake at night, reliving all those moments where I thought you might be dead or dying or anything horrible that’s in between, and I listen to you calling out his name like you _miss him_.”

Illya slowly curls his hands into fists, trying to stop the trembling that is rising from deep within his chest. He breathes out. It does little to help.

“I watched a kid I once knew, once helped train, shoot you in the side,” he says coldly. “I watched him go mad with grief because his friend, a man who was once part of the closest thing I had to family, had died trying to replicate all the stupid things we’ve done over the years. I knew him, Napoleon. You might be able to think of Alexi as some villain, some evil mastermind coming in to disrupt our lives, but I _knew_ him. He was one of us.”

Napoleon stares at him for a long moment. “I didn’t think you still thought of yourself as one of _them_,” he says eventually. “Or that they ever deserved to be called something as precious as family.”

“They were my family before I had you,” Illya spits.

Even as he says it, he knows it was a mistake. Napoleon’s face twists.

“Bullshit, and you know it,” he says, his voice hollow. “But then you’re so willing to overlook all the crap they’ve dealt you. You always have been. Even when Alexi, one of _yours_, was tearing your life apart you still went back to them. Christ, Peril, it’s like all of this doesn’t even mean anything to you. It’s like all you want to do is go back to them.”

Illya doesn’t realise he’s gotten to his feet until he hears the clatter of his chair falling to the floor. “Don’t you dare,” he growls. His hands are shaking by his side. “I did everything to get you back. You don’t get to throw that back at me, not when all you did was give in and walk into his trap. Not when you put yourself there and made me have to call up _Oleg_ to get you back.”

Napoleon laughs, the sound bitter. “Oh yes, let’s talk about that,” he says. “Let’s talk about how you made a fucking _deal_. You made a deal with Oleg, _Oleg_ of all people, and now he has you on a fucking leash. There were a thousand other ways to get out of that situation without whoring yourself out to him!”

He realises what he says a moment later. “Shit. Shit, Illya, you know I didn’t mean-”

“Don’t,” Illya snaps. “I don’t want to hear it.” His chair shrieks against the floor as he pushes it back under the table. “I’m going upstairs. I’ll come back downstairs when you decide you can have a proper conversation or when Gaby arrives, whichever comes first.”

He stalks out of the kitchen before Napoleon can say anything else. Laika follows him, nosing at his hands where they tremble at his sides. She’s subdued, barely even wagging her tail when Illya whistles at her to come upstairs with him, and sticks close to his heel as he pushes open the door and stumbles into the bedroom.

She whines at him, and he chokes on a laugh. “You’re just a dog,” he mutters. “What do you know?”

Laika whines again. Her nose is cold and damp where she pushes it into his hands, tail wagging slightly as she looks up at him. Illya sinks down to the floor, ribs aching at the movement, until he’s slumped against the end of the bed. Laika pushes herself onto his lap, feet digging into his stomach until she’s comfortable.

Illya chokes on another laugh. He digs his hands into Laika’s fur, tucking his head down and breathing in the unmistakeable smell of dog, and stays there until the doorbell rings.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby looks tired as Napoleon lets her in, though that’s no different from when he usually sees her. “Darling,” he says as he kisses her cheek. “You look in need of wine.”

“Please,” Gaby says as she hangs up her coat. “It has been somewhat of a long day.” She follows Napoleon into the kitchen and heads straight for the wine resting on the counter. “Where’s Illya?”

“Upstairs,” Napoleon says, keeping his voice light as he gets out the wine glasses. “He’ll be down in a second, I’m sure. Are you hungry? I’ve made your favourite.”

When he turns around, Gaby is already poking at the pan on the stove. “Risotto,” she says approvingly. “Any truffles in it this time?”

Napoleon manages a laugh. “No, not this time,” he replies. “It’s going to be another ten minutes, so there are nibbles in the cupboard if you really can’t wait.” He glances through the kitchen towards the stairs. “I’ll go give Illya a shout.”

He barely gets to the foot of the stairs before hearing the skitter of claws on wood. Laika comes barrelling down the stairs, barely sniffing at Napoleon before rushing at Gaby in the kitchen.

Illya comes down more slowly. He looks tired, exhausted in the way that can’t be fixed by sleep. “Save it,” he mutters as he passes Napoleon, no doubt noticing the words slowly forming on Napoleon’s tongue.

Napoleon can see the cracks in the façade Illya puts on as soon as he sees Gaby in the kitchen, crouched down with her arms full of Laika as she sheds all over what looks like a very expensive suit. “Chop shop girl,” he says. “World still standing?”

Gaby pushes Laika off her and gets to her feet. “Groom your dog,” she says as she brushes fur off her trousers. “I had to meet with the Prime Minister again today, and this suit cost me more than your entire wardrobe.”

“That’s not hard,” Napoleon says as he comes into the kitchen. He checks on the risotto, stirring it to make sure none of the rice is sticking to the bottom of the pan. “The turtlenecks are killing me, Gaby.”

Maybe the comment is too close to the days before Alexi, where they would sit around the kitchen table and trade playful jabs like they’d done at UNCLE. Maybe Illya takes it as a barb instead of the joke Napoleon thinks he meant it as. Either way, Napoleon can see in the line of his mouth how close he is to snapping at him.

It’s a lie, but it’s an easy lie, to huff a laugh and pretend like nothing is happening. Napoleon pours the wine, and tries not to think too much about how easy it is to grin at Gaby and keep up the charade.

“The Prime Minister?” he asks as he grates parmesan into the risotto. “How’s she doing?”

“Oh, about ready to strangle her back-benchers, I think,” Gaby replies as she passes Illya his wine glass. “I honestly think it’s about time they split and make their own xenophobic little party. At least that way they’ll get properly trounced in the next election and shut the hell up.”

“It might take a while,” Napoleon points out. “It took years to dismantle UKIP in the public eye, and that was only because of the socialism rise on the left that makes no sense.”

“Makes more sense than Conservative policy,” Illya says flatly. “Why should the rich get more incentive to try and work around tax laws? We should be paying more taxes.”

“To be fair, the main reason we don’t pay enough taxes is because half of our money is tied up in not so legal accounts or hidden where they don’t know where to look,” Napoleon points out. He cuts off a knob of butter and stirs it into the risotto. “I didn’t exactly get most of that from legal jobs, remember?”

“Oh, yes, I know,” Gaby says. “Still, you should definitely pay more taxes.”

“Hey, I made that money,” Napoleon says. It’s an old argument, this one, and it’s easy to dredge up the words on his tongue even when he can’t really think straight. “Why don’t I get to keep it?”

“Because other people need it more than we do,” Illya says, fingers curling around the stem of his wine glass. “Capitalism is a failing idea anyway.”

Gaby takes a sip of her wine. “Viva Marx!” she cries, and she promptly starts giggling. Napoleon can feel a smile curling his lips at those words, the ones she used to cry every time he and Illya got into it over politics.

She’s always been a girl from the remnants of East Berlin at heart, even if the Soviet Union fell apart before she could walk. Illya is old enough, at least, to remember the last decade or so of it, old enough to have had those ideals set into him as a child, and it’s put them on the same line of thinking from the first time the topic came up. Napoleon has always been the odd one out when it comes to politics.

Nevertheless, it’s a familiar enough conversation to fall into as Napoleon serves the risotto and they start to eat, well-rehearsed lines able to come to his lips without too much thought. It’s a safer conversation too, compared to what hangs in the spaces between them.

Gaby scarfs down the risotto like a starving woman, arguing politics with her mouth full and pausing only for sips of wine. “Didn’t eat lunch?” Napoleon asks as he tops up her glass. “Or is the cafeteria food still that bad?”

“Oh, there was a bit of a crisis,” Gaby replies, eyeing the breadsticks on the table until Illya pushes them over to her. “Something going on in Mumbai. It was a bit of a push to get it under control in time to get here.”

“Darling, the state of world security is more important than dinner with us,” Napoleon points out. Illya hums in agreement, poking at his risotto with a breadstick.

“Oh, it was fine,” Gaby says, waving it off. “It’s all sorted. Now, is there another bottle of this red?”

Napoleon dutifully hands it over, trying not to let the easy smile slip from his face at the thought of being babysat by the woman he once taught how to pick locks and case a building without being seen. “Don’t jeopardise world security just for us,” he says. “Anyone want the last of the risotto before dessert?”

He just about sees the frown that flits across Illya’s face, but he’s not sure why it’s there. Maybe he’s as tired and fed up of this charade as himself. Maybe he’s just in a pissy mood. It’s really hard to tell sometimes.

“Dessert, Peril?” he asks, his voice just a little too sweet to be normal.

Illya levels him with a glare when Gaby turns to get plates out of the cupboard. “I’m fine, Cowboy,” he says. He doesn’t even seem to bother trying to sound cheerful, enough that Napoleon can see Gaby glance over at him from the corner of his eye as he pulls the crumble from the oven.

“It’s blackberry and apple crumble,” Napoleon says, placing it right in front of Illya so the smell rises straight to him. “Illya? Custard or ice cream?”

The shriek that Illya’s chair makes against the tiles goes straight through Napoleon as Illya pushes it back and gets to his feet. “I’m not feeling well,” he gets out. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Peril,” Napoleon calls after him, but Illya is already halfway to the stairs. He heads after him, one hand still wearing an oven mitt. Illya doesn’t look at him as he disappears up the stairs, and Napoleon just stands there, staring at the empty staircase. He’s still wearing that stupid apron, that stupid pretence at a normal life that’s never going to be theirs, and suddenly he wants to do nothing more than rip it off and tear it into pieces, chuck it in the garbage and never see it again.

He stands there and watches Illya walk upstairs, oven mitt slowly slipping from his hand and that fucking apron tied around his waist.

When he turns back around, when he hears their bedroom door slam upstairs, Gaby is sitting at the kitchen table with a tub of ice cream and two spoons. “Sit,” she says. “Eat. Talk.”

Napoleon falls into the opposite chair and reaches for the ice cream. “You could have at least picked out the Ben and Jerry’s instead of the cheap shit Illya buys,” he mutters, but he digs his spoon into it anyway.

“If you’re going to eat your way through the entire tub because you’re moping, you do it with the cheap shit,” Gaby says, reaching over with her own spoon. “Besides, this is a bigger tub.”

Napoleon takes a mouthful of ice cream and then spends the next thirty seconds trying not to spit it out as his brain protests at the sudden temperature change. “Brain freeze,” he gets out eventually. “I’m fine.”

Gaby sucks the last of her ice cream off the spoon. “No, you’re not,” she says softly. “What’s wrong?”

Napoleon chokes on a laugh. “Try the whole fucking world, Gaby,” he says. He pulls the ice cream tub towards him. “Alexi has gone and fucked everything up. Illya hardly leaves the house now, I apparently am not here enough, and between us I think we cover the entire spectrum of fucked up issues.” He stabs at the ice cream. “Illya barely sleeps through the night, and if he’s not calling out for Alexi like he fucking _misses him_, then he’s getting up at two in the morning and leaving me wondering if he’s given up and leaving to get on a plane back to fucking _Moscow_.”

There’s a sharp crack as the plastic tub snaps, his spoon flicking ice cream across the table. “Goddamn it!” Napoleon snaps.

He resists the urge to fling the spoon down onto the table like a toddler throwing a tantrum. Gaby wordlessly gets up and cleans away the ice cream splattered on the table. She pushes the tub towards him again. “Do you think he’s going to leave?”

Napoleon can hear the cautious tone to her voice, and for a brief moment he hates her for it. “I think he made a deal with Oleg and it’s going to backfire in his face,” he says shortly. “I think he’s so caught up in what Alexi did that it’s all he can think about, and that his vision is fucking rose-tinted when it comes to anything to do with Russia.”

“That’s a lie,” Gaby says, but Napoleon can hear the doubt in her voice. “Illya knows perfectly well what it was like in Russia, better than you do. All you’ve seen is the aftermath. Illya lived through it.”

“I know, but right now it feels like he’s stuck in those memories,” Napoleon mutters. He reaches for the ice cream. “You know how easy it is to look back at that sort of thing and not even see the bad parts. Especially with all the shit people like us have been through, it’s so easy to just…not remember it.”

Gaby sighs. “I can’t say what Illya is thinking,” she just says. “You have to talk to him.” She takes another spoonful of ice cream. “And what are you thinking?”

“Oh, I’m just grand,” Napoleon says, stabbing at the ice cream again. “Fucking brilliant. Not like someone just turned our lives upside down.” He swallows another scoop of ice cream. “You know the worst thing, Gaby? I don’t even know if it’s Alexi’s fault.”

“He was the one who did all this,” Gaby points out. “I’d say that all the fault lies with him.”

“Yeah, but he did it because of what we did,” Napoleon says. He can feel the fight draining out of him as he sits there, staring at the crack in the tub that’s slowly oozing melted ice cream. “Markos listened to our stories, all the insane shit that we’ve somehow pulled off without killing ourselves over the years, and he got himself killed trying to do the same. And then that drove Alexi mad, or whatever passes for madness when you’re an SVR agent. How is that not our fault?”

“Christ, Solo,” Gaby says. “How is it your fault? What, you shouldn’t have done those insane things that nearly got you killed but saved a hell of a lot of people? Where would you be then?”

“There would have been better ways to do it,” Napoleon mutters. “All of it. We could have just been normal agents, but no, I had to show off at every turn, and Illya had to follow me into it every time. Everyone else managed to do their jobs without turning themselves into a goddamn story.”

“You did what you had to do,” Gaby tells him. She offers him the ice cream, and Napoleon stabs viciously at it.

“Did we?” he asks bitterly. “Because from where I’m standing, all we did was do unnecessary stupid shit that should have killed us and is now killing other people who aren’t as stupidly lucky as we are.”

He stares at the ice cream. “I don’t even know how to begin to fix this,” he mutters. “I don’t know what to say to Illya to help him. When he gets like this, he’s so entrenched in his head that not even a damn mortar barrage would shift him. What hope in hell do I have?”

“You’re his husband,” Gaby says. “You haven’t gotten this far and through the metric ton of shit that you’ve both had without being able to talk to each other.”

“This is different, Gaby,” Napoleon just says. And it is. Everything else they dealt with, all the people who tried to kill them or pull them apart or just make their lives hell, it was all expected. It was just part of the job. But this, the empty spaces hanging around the house, Illya’s murmurs of _Alexi_ in the night, this wasn’t something he’d ever have seen coming.

He’d never give up Illya for anything, would have gone through all that they dealt with for him all over again, but this, this is his fault. He’s done this. And this perfect little life he’d tried to pretend to have, it’s all falling to pieces around them. It was stupid to think he could ever have this in the first place.

Gaby heads home eventually, and Napoleon walks upstairs. Illya is in bed already when he opens the door, curled up under the sheets. He’s still awake, though. Napoleon can see his shoulders tense as the door opens.

Someone had told him, when he and Illya had been engaged and were trying to avoid wedding planning like the plague, that the secret to a good marriage was to never go to bed angry. At the time Napoleon had laughed, because that had seemed like the least of their problems when they were regularly getting shot at or tortured. Now, he thinks it would be easier to cry.

He sits down on the edge of the bed. “How are you doing, Peril?” he asks softly, stroking a hand down his shoulder.

Illya rolls over. “Tired,” he mutters, not looking at Napoleon.

“Just tired, or PTSD tired?” Napoleon asks. He brushes Illya’s hair back from his forehead, smoothing his thumb across Illya’s cheek. “Gaby says she’ll pop by for lunch in a few days, catch up with you properly.”

Illya hums, and rolls back away from him. Napoleon sighs, running one hand over his face. “Peril,” he says. “Talk to me?”

“Let’s just go to sleep, Cowboy,” Illya mutters, muffled by the pillow.

“Are we over that argument earlier?” Napoleon asks. He doesn’t know a better way to bring it up, and is too tired of all this to be gentler. “Or am I sleeping on the sofa tonight?”

That makes Illya look at him, a scathing look on his face. “Why should we be over it?” he asks. “Gaby turned up and we said nothing else on it.”

“So, I am sleeping on the sofa, then?” Napoleon replies.

Illya rolls his eyes. “Get into bed, Cowboy,” he mutters. “Go to sleep. I’ll try not to wake you up when I start missing Alexi, or am thinking about whoring myself out to Oleg, or whatever else you’re accusing me of.”

“Christ, Peril,” Napoleon breathes. “I’m sorry for that. Can we just…can we just talk about this without taking cheap shots at each other?”

Illya doesn’t say anything, and Napoleon gives in. He always gives in when it comes to Illya, right from the moment he gave in and decided to believe that he really was in love with him. Apparently, he even gives in when he walks straight into a trap just because Illya is there.

For a second, as he’d set his rifle down and raised his hands into the air, as he’d watched Illya strain against the handcuffs slowly cutting into his wrists to add to the scars already there, he’d really thought he’d been doing the right thing.

It had been the wrong thing, of course, but he’d been too damn blind to see it. He’d been too damn blind to see all of it.

0-o-0-o-0

He wakes up slowly.

The dream clings to him, dragging him back down even as he blinks and rubs at his eyes. It would be so tempting to just fall asleep and straight back into the sensual embrace of half-lit ballrooms, slip right back into place amidst the champagne and tuxedos and heels sharp enough to kill a man.

For a brief moment, he can hear the piano still playing in the corner.

Napoleon suppresses a sigh and sits up. Next to him, Illya briefly stirs, but doesn’t wake.

He can still taste the damn champagne.

He doesn’t think he recognised the ballroom, the one he was wandering through in the dream, but it’s familiar enough. Even the taste of the air was familiar enough for him to place it, the richness and opulence that saturated those places until it seemed to weigh down every gem resting at the throat of some heiress, every priceless piece of art just small enough for him to get out with.

The pyjamas he’s wearing suddenly feel too loose, the old t-shirt that he stole from Illya too thin and flimsy. He misses the weight of the lockpicks in an inner pocket of a tuxedo jacket, the ones that he suddenly realises he’d had in that dream. He knows that weight better than almost anything, the way the picks fit in the cut of his suit, how to adjust the fit so that the line can’t be seen. For years upon years he barely went anywhere without at least one of them tucked into a pocket.

Without thinking about it, he reaches for the bedside table, the false drawer in the bottom that he’d put in the day he’d bought it. It’s easy to flick the catch and pull it open, easy to do it without making a sound.

The lockpicks are nestled snugly in the black cloth. Napoleon’s fingers are sure as he pulls the set out. He knows the shape of every one of these tools, can feel the curves and ridges through the cloth that muffles every movement they make.

He’s had this set for years. They’ve been through hell with him, were in his pocket when he got out of the Louvre by the skin of his teeth back when he didn’t know what he was doing, were there over a decade later when he got shot and they were in the middle of nowhere with no aid kit. Illya had nearly lost them in the shack they’d holed up in, in his frantic rush to try and strip Napoleon’s shirt off to stop the bleeding.

Napoleon only has vague recollections of that night, half out of his mind as fever set in, but he remembers Illya curling around him and begging him in nearly unintelligible Russian not to die.

He remembers the next day more clearly, remembers Gaby turning up with a battered truck and him nearly falling over in his efforts to go back to get his lockpicks. Illya had all but picked him up and thrown him in the truck with some cutting remark, but had then spent ten minutes that they didn’t have going back into the shack and hunting for the damn lockpicks. Napoleon had passed out about ten minutes into the journey back, Gaby’s driving coupled with rutted tracks more than he could bear, but he remembers Illya drawing him close and cushioning him as best as he could against the truck just before he passed out.

Now, the few inches across the bed between them feels like a mile, and he’s sure he can feel the dried blood flaking off the cloth in his hands.

Illya shifts in bed behind him, and Napoleon flinches. He slips the lockpicks back into the false drawer and slides it shut behind them. The latch clicks, the sound loud in the dark, but Illya doesn’t stir.

It used to feel like Illya had been there forever, has always been at his side, but Illya was nowhere to be seen in that dream. Illya had never belonged in that sort of place, never fit in amongst the finely cut suits and flutes of champagne. He’d never been good at talking the marks into telling him whatever he wanted to hear, especially not the people that Napoleon used to run into in those ballrooms and rob blind later.

He always used to think that Illya grounded him, kept him tethered, but people are still dying because of what they did.

He’d never had to worry about this, those years before the CIA and UNCLE and trying to save the world every single day. He’d just run around the world and stolen whatever he could get hold of. Sure, sometimes he’d been shot at or avoided being caught by the skin of his teeth, but he hadn’t had to worry about the fate of the people that got too close.

He hadn’t had to worry about some poor bastard getting themselves killed because of him.

It’s not like he’s good enough for all of this anyway. It’s not like he’s been even a little bit morally upstanding like Waverly, or even playing the long game to get to a good outcome like Gaby had done for far too long. Hell, he’s not even had anywhere near the pressure like Illya grew up with, no constant looming threat over everything he loves to make him do the things he did. Illya would have ended up like his father at the slightest wrong movement, sentenced to death in a labour camp. Of course he would have done what was asked of him without question, of course he would have done those things that any sane person would call bad.

Napoleon had none of that, and he did the bad things anyway.

He can smell the desert that he turned his back on, that strange smell of sand baking in the sun that had seemed to delight in beating them down against the dunes. He can still remember the sheer relief that had come with stealing his first piece and running, just fleeing everything and not stopping until there was an ocean between him and that life. It had been like stepping through a waterfall to find a lush landscape on the other side.

It had taken him a while to work his way up, but once he had, he’d been unstoppable. That rush, the euphoria of pulling off the perfect heist and getting away without a scratch, the addictive satisfaction of playing one mark off another until they were both eating out of his hand, it is impossible to forget. And in the middle of the night, those lockpicks sitting right there in that false drawer, it could be just within his grasp.

Napoleon falls back into bed. He stares at the bedside table for a long time before he finally falls asleep.

Next to him, Illya rolls onto his back and stares at the ceiling. He sits up, careful to not jostle Napoleon, and looks over at the bedside table. Nothing is out of place.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, it's not getting easier for them. It won't for a while.
> 
> After this I think I'm probably going to stick to weekly updates- it might not always be on a Tuesday, it depends on life doing the things that life does, which is namely throwing unforseen problems at my head and shouting at me to catch them before I get flattened, so yeah, but I'll give it my best shot to get something out every single week, even if it's not on the same day.


	3. Regent's Park

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A slightly shorter chapter today, it's just the way it fell out when I was writing it. Thank you all so so much for your amazing comments so far, I really do hope to fully crush your hearts into a million tiny pieces over the course of this fic, so thanks for letting me.

The days drag on. London seems enveloped in grey as winter looms, sending dead leaves skittering down the roads despite the best efforts of road sweepers. Illya watches it pass from the kitchen window.

There’s a restlessness prowling beneath his skin. It surges up at night, lying awake with Napoleon asleep and oblivious next to him, skittering across his body until he aches from it. He keeps it at bay with long runs around the park, Laika following faithfully at his heels. When he does step outside the wind chases at him, curling beneath his coat and settling around his neck. His body has forgotten what cold really feels like, so long spent in a country with none of the bitter winters that he’d thought built into his bones.

Sometimes Napoleon comes home not too long after it gets dark, and they spend the evening pretending like nothing is happening. Sometimes they fall into bed together, and if nothing else, Napoleon still knows how to make Illya shiver and moan into his mouth, how to forget for a few satisfying moments. It quells the restlessness stalking him, but only for a few hours.

Sometimes, Napoleon doesn’t come home until late, defences already on his lips as soon as he steps through the door and finds Illya waiting up for him on the couch. Recently, Illya has taken to just going to bed when he can be bothered, regardless of if Napoleon is back from the Institute yet. It hurts less.

Illya watches the days pass from the kitchen window, and he tries not to let his hands stray to his phone, to the number that he still knows off by heart after all these years. And with every day that slips by under the blanket of grey, his control frays a little more.

The restlessness seems to sense it and pushes forwards, snapping at the tether he has restraining it. He was not made to be still and useless, after all. He’d been moulded into a soldier, into the best spy that the SVR had to offer, and he had spent decades making himself good at what he does.

The house feels smaller every day. It even smells wrong. Illya remembers the smell of Russia even better these days, the winds that would sweep in from the north and bring the scent of pine and snow with them.

He misses that smell. It was easier back then, easier to put his head down and do everything that was asked of him, do his best for his country. It was easier before Napoleon had come into his life and turned everything upside down. He had never disobeyed orders before, had understood that the chain of command existed to prevent them from all falling into disarray and that his superiors should be trusted to make the right decisions.

A few days with Napoleon in Rome, and that had apparently been enough to pull out the foundations. A few years with Napoleon, and he thinks his younger self, so full of pride and determination, would barely recognise him.

Now, standing at the kitchen window and watching the days slip past, he wonders what the hell he is if Napoleon had changed him that much. He wonders how much of himself is what he has built, and how much is what Napoleon crafted, even if he didn’t mean to.

The lack of an answer has that restlessness surging and prowling close beneath his skin again.

Illya shuts his eyes, and breathes. He thinks of the tundra, of snow upon snow, the way that everything is muffled around them except the air that burns their throats as they breathe. The haze that descends when the snow falls, when everyone else becomes little more than blurred shapes on a horizon just out of his reach.

Unbidden, he can just about hear the sound of footsteps on marble hallways, slightly out of time with each other. He can hear Markos’ laugh as they are glared at by another official, the way his voice slips between accents before they head out on a mission, testing out the right one to use. From there, other voices are easy to recall. The slight note of pleasure in Oleg’s gruff voice after a job well done, the laughter amongst a group of agents as they claim a table in their favourite bar.

Illya hadn’t often gone with the other agents to that bar, too on the outside to ever really feel comfortable, but sometimes Markos had been in town and dragged him along. The place had been dim, dark wood absorbing most of the light and the floor always a little sticky, but the owners had known who they were and had kept the vodka cheap and arriving to the table in bottles.

He can see the faces of agents around the table. His mind fills in the gaps, filling in a space with Alexi next to Markos. He knows that they were never all together, let alone in that bar, but that doesn’t stop him from imagining Alexi’s grin from across the dark wood table.

He can see Alexi, his face twisted in grief as he points a gun at them. He can see his finger curl around the trigger, the jerk of the gun in his hand.

He knows he never actually saw those moments, was too busy throwing himself at Napoleon as Alexi fired the gun, but he can remember them anyway. He knows exactly how Alexi would have held the gun, absorbed the kickback and kept the muzzle steady. His hands know the same.

Alexi screams at him to kill him, and Illya breathes out.

When he opens his eyes, he’s gripping the edge of the counter so hard that his knuckles have turned white.

He would have killed him.

If Napoleon hadn’t grabbed his wrist, hadn’t begged him to show a little mercy, then he might have. It would have been so easy to curl his finger around the trigger and squeeze.

He knows exactly what would have happened, can imagine exactly how Alexi would have hit the ground, the way the blood would pool on that gallery floor. A sudden bile rises in his throat and he stumbles.

He’s not going to be sick. He’s watched hundreds of people get shot. Imagining one more shouldn’t be any different.

The sound of Alexi’s laughter, young and surprised as he gets a manoeuvre right for the first time, rings in his ears. He can smell pine and snow on the wind.

0-o-0-o-0

His feet slip on the wet leaves covering the ground, and he staggers for a few steps until getting his balance. Laika slips past him, tongue out as she glances up at him. “Close,” he mutters at her, and she obediently falls into place at his heel. He picks up the pace, ignoring the glares from a gaggle of women with their pampered little dogs as he runs past.

There’s the sound of feet behind him. Illya instinctively picks up the pace again, trying to quell the instinct that makes him want to glance over his shoulder, to reach for a gun that isn’t there.

“Christ, slow down a bit,” Gaby gasps from behind him. “Not all of us are Russian-made super soldiers.”

Illya slows down, Laika following him. “Sorry, chop shop girl,” he mutters. He breathes in, feeling the scrape of winter air on his throat.

“Yeah, sure,” Gaby replies. “Take a break at the end of the path?”

Illya could keep running, should keep pushing himself, but Gaby looks like her legs are about to fall out from underneath her, and she might just tackle him if he doesn’t stop. He nods, and catches the look that Gaby gives him out of the corner of his eye. Suddenly he dreads reaching the end of the path.

Gaby staggers to a stop as soon as they do, gulping in huge breaths of air. “You’re a horrible running partner,” she mutters. “Absolutely terrible.”

“You’re just out of practice,” Illya replies. He stretches down to the ground, quietly relishing the ache in his muscles. Laika noses up to him, licking at his face until he pushes her away.

When he looks up, Gaby is studying him. “Solo says you’re getting restless,” she tells him.

Illya rolls his eyes. “Cowboy doesn’t know what he’s talking about,” he mutters. He can barely remember what Napoleon had snapped at him last night, only that it was enough for that restlessness to skitter beneath his skin again. Even this run is barely helping now that they’ve stopped and he can’t distract himself with the ache in his legs and the rasp of his breath in his throat.

Gaby stops pretending like she’s concentrating on stretching and slumps on the nearby bench. “He’s just worrying about you. Don’t take it out on him for caring.” She pushes her hair out of her face. “What happened with Alexi was a hell of a blow to the both of you.”

“I’m well aware,” Illya says, trying not to snap at her. Laika, perhaps sensing something in his voice, whines and tries to push closer to him. He breathes out, and gently tugs at her ears the way she likes. “He can worry all he likes. It doesn’t change anything that happened. It just makes us argue.”

Gaby hums. “Well, you know Napoleon,” she says. “He’ll talk himself in circles before actually getting to anything that’s really bothering him. You, on the other hand, charge right in and damn the consequences.” She shrugs at Illya’s look. “You’ve both calmed down a lot since the times when you’d really do that, spend hours setting each other off because you hadn’t worked out how to actually talk to each other, but it’s still true.”

Illya huffs a brief laugh at that. “I don’t know how we managed to not kill each other, those first years,” he says. “All we did was argue.”

He trails off, staring at Laika as she rests her chin on his leg. Her tail is brushing past his leg with every wag, slowly covering his lower leg in mud, but he can’t be bothered to move his leg away. “It mattered less, back then,” he just says.

Gaby hums again. She leans over to pull some of the twigs out of Laika’s coat. “Napoleon thinks that it’s his fault. Well, both of you, but he seems to be putting a fair amount of the blame on himself.”

Illya rubs a hand over his face. “I know,” he gets out.

“Do you think it is?” Gaby asks. “Your fault, I mean?” Her voice has softened. Illya isn’t sure if he’s annoyed or grateful.

“Does it matter?” he replies. He shrugs at her look. “I’ve killed a lot of people over the years. If I felt guilt for every single one of them then I wouldn’t still be here.”

He thinks it matters a lot more to Napoleon. Napoleon was never raised in this life, never moulded into a killer. He’d always rebelled against that part of the job, always tried to find a different option if he could. It makes sense that he would take this as his own fault. He would blame himself for anyone who gets hurt believing they can pull off what he and Napoleon did.

Illya misses Markos, but guilt and shame are things he learnt to live with a long time ago. Napoleon has never had that practice.

“You should talk to him,” Gaby says when he’s been silent for too long. “Actually talk to him, not these snide arguments that go nowhere that I know the two of you have been having.” She rolls her eyes at Illya’s look. “We practically lived in each other’s pockets for years. I know how you two argue.”

“It’s all changed now,” Illya says quietly. He stares at the floor, at the dead leaves half sunk into mud beneath his feet. “We’re not agents- we’re not meant to be agents anymore. We were meant to be civilians.”

“_Were_?” Gaby asks. “What is that meant to mean?”

“Exactly what it means,” Illya snaps. “We aren’t built for that life, Gaby. We weren’t made for this. I never had any other option, you know that, and Napoleon may not have been built to be this from the start, but he still became this… what we become from this job. You know how impossible it would be for you to turn your back on what you’ve created here. And I know it bothers Napoleon.” He rubs a hand over his face. “He’s been staring at his lockpicks when he thinks I’m asleep, or studying that stolen painting over the fireplace when he thinks I’m not looking.”

He digs his hands into Laika’s fur, letting her lick at his knee. “He’s not happy, Gaby,” he gets out. “And I don’t know how to fix it. Every time we try and talk it just…it just devolves into another stupid argument.” They’ve always found it too easy to argue. There are too many things that they’ve done over the years that could be dug up and used as ammunition, too many little details that they’ve never really managed to agree over.

“He’s blaming himself for all of this,” Gaby says. “But then that’s Napoleon for you. His head is so full of thoughts that they can be impossible to untangle, and sometimes I have no idea if even he knows what he’s really thinking.”

Illya hums in agreement. “Napoleon was always the one desperate for the civilian life,” he murmurs. “You know what I mean. You could see it towards the end at UNCLE, the way he wanted out. He’s always wanted this life, the job at the Institute, the townhouse…all of it.”

“And you didn’t?” Gaby asks.

Illya shrugs. “I went where he went.”

It’s an oversimplification, and he knows it, but it’s as true as he can get outside his own head.

He’s fairly sure, looking back on it, that he never would have been able to walk away from UNCLE without Napoleon waiting on the other side. He’s not sure he would have even walked away from Russia and the SVR without Napoleon jolting him off the rails, sending him spinning into a whole different world and way of thinking. Even now, over a decade later, and Moscow still has a tight grip on him. It’s just that Napoleon seems to have held on tighter.

Napoleon has been there at every single step he’s made, every decision he has contemplated since burning a tape in an ashtray on a hotel balcony. Over all the years at UNCLE he was there; sitting in their shared office poring over reports and intelligence, a steady hand right beside him on a mission, a warm presence next to him at night. And then when he walked away, to the townhouse and his job and attempt at some sort of civilian life, Illya somehow found it in himself to follow. He’s not even sure if he can remember making a conscious decision to go. One day he was the best SVR agent that Russia had, and the next…

He thinks maybe that he’d loved Napoleon from the beginning. That it can be the only explanation for why he followed him so willingly, turned his back on his country and everything that had been drilled into him since he was a child. And now Napoleon doesn’t know where to go. So neither does he.

“You’ve been quiet for too long,” Gaby says.

Illya blinks, and comes back into himself. “I’m fine,” he says. “I’m just…I’m worried about him.”

“He’s worried about you as well,” Gaby points out. She runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. “Just talk to him, Illya. Talk properly, without arguing. Hell, I can be there to moderate if you want, but you will get nowhere if you don’t sit down and talk.”

“What’s he worried about?” Illya asks, ignoring everything else she just said. “According to him, I just stay at home all day.”

There must be something in his tone that gives him away, because Gaby looks searchingly at him. “He’s working himself up over the favour that you promised Oleg,” she tells him. “Thinks that you only promised it so you would have an excuse to return to Russia.” At Illya’s look, she shrugs. “He didn’t tell me as such, but I worked it out easily enough.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Illya says instantly. “He’s just feeling guilty over not doing anything to get me back, so is blaming me for doing what I could to get him back.”

“You don’t have to argue with him when he’s not even here,” Gaby says pointedly. “I’m not on a side. Christ, Illya, there is no side here. But you still promised Oleg a favour, and he is going to call it in sooner or later.”

“I’m well aware of how Oleg acts,” Illya says, trying not to snap at her. “But it worked, and it is done. Nothing else to do now but see what happens.”

“It is exactly that which is making Napoleon worried you’re going to leave,” Gaby says firmly. She pauses, and waits long enough that Illya glances up from Laika to meet her gaze. “Do you want to leave?” she asks.

“No,” Illya says instantly, but it tastes weak on his tongue. He swallows. “I love him more than anything, chop shop girl,” he says. “I don’t want to leave him, not ever.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Gaby says gently. “I know that you’d never turn your back on Napoleon, Illya. I’m well aware that the two of you are probably one of the only certain things in this damn world. But you can want to stay with him, and still want to leave.”

Illya shakes his head. “Stop it, Gaby,” he says, trying to keep his voice even.

“Stop what?” Gaby asks. She leans forwards, letting Laika sniff at her fingers.

Illya recognises that tone of voice from her. “Just stop it,” he growls. “Stop talking about us like that.”

“Like what?” Gaby asks.

“Like we are some sort of certainty!” Illya snaps. “Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon and Illya- whenever anybody talks about us it’s always the same. It’s always the two of us, talked about like we’re one entity. Like we’re so…so stuck together you can’t tell where one of us ends and the other begins.”

Laika whines as his hands dig into her fur too tightly, the sound cutting through the park. Illya makes himself let go, and she licks at his fingers, squirming as she pushes her way in between his knees.

“All the stories told about us,” he says quietly. “All the ones that got us into this mess, they all have one thing the same. It’s always the both of us. It has to be, or the story doesn’t work.”

Gaby groans. “Illya,” she says pleadingly. “I know that what Alexi said has got your head, and Napoleon’s, not quite screwed on right, but the both of you have to stop thinking about these damn stories. Do they really matter?”

“Napoleon says so,” Illya replies. “He thinks they matter enough that we’re responsible.”

“And you agree?” Gaby asks.

Illya shrugs. “Probably, but it matters less to me than it does to Napoleon,” he says. “I’m already responsible for a lot of people’s deaths. That it was Markos who died…” He trails off and rubs a hand over his face.

He’s used to missing people. After a while, it just becomes another part of the job.

“People die, Gaby,” he says eventually. “In our line of work, it is inevitable. I’ve had a long time to learn to live with it. Napoleon…he has never found it as easy to accept.”

Gaby hums. She sounds unconvinced. “You know those stories aren’t all bad?” she asks. “You do understand what you and Napoleon mean to the other agents I work for, don’t you? I’d bet my hat, non-existent as it is, that more than half the agents who are there now kept going because of the two of you. Those days where it all seems pointless, where no matter what you do the bad guys seem to keep getting lucky and you’re always two steps behind? I’ve heard agents tell each other on those days that _it’s not too bad,_ or that_ Solo and Kuryakin came out the other side of worse_. It keeps them going, Illya. I’d imagine there are plenty more out there who are kept going by it.”

Illya scoffs but Gaby shakes her head. “You’d be surprised how far you’ve spread,” she tells him. “You’re known all over the world, Illya, you and Napoleon. You keep people going.”

“We get people killed,” Illya counters. “People who had nothing to do with us.” He rubs a hand over his face. “Markos is dead because of it.”

He still can’t quite believe that Markos, of all people, was foolish enough to try and do what somehow didn’t kill him and Napoleon. He’d trained beside him, spent days shivering in the tundra or gasping for air in the deserts right next to him. They’d gone their separate ways after the spetsnaz, as he got pulled in under Oleg, but they’d kept in touch. Even after he’d gone to UNCLE, they’d kept in touch.

Illya thinks it was more to check that the other was still alive, that they were still sane, more than anything else. Markos had never mentioned the stories he must have been hearing.

Even now, Illya can’t work out why Markos was listening to them. Why he didn’t realise instantly what he was hearing and how ridiculous it was. Markos had always been a little reckless, but he’d also been smart, smarter than Illya when it came down to it. He should have known that he was believing in something that didn’t mean anything at all.

Gaby stretches out her legs, wincing at the motion. “Let’s keep moving,” she says. “Before I seize up and have to hobble back to UNCLE like the old woman I am at heart. I’ll never hear the end of it from the agents if I do.”

Illya gets to his feet and whistles for Laika to join them. “We’ll walk the circuit up towards Triton fountain and then start running again,” he says.

“Fine by me,” Gaby replies. She links arms with him and they walk in silence for a few minutes, Laika bounding forwards and running back to them with her tongue lolling.

“What was he like?” Gaby says abruptly.

Illya glances down at her. “Who?”

“Markos,” she clarifies, her voice gentling. “What was he like?”

Illya breathes out. He watches Laika run across the grass again, tail wagging. “He laughed a lot,” he says. “He laughed at everything, even when it wasn’t funny. And he was very good at impressions. Back in spetsnaz, he used to do impressions over the radio, make all of us laugh on training exercises.” He huffs a laugh. “Of course, we would get told off for it, made to do more push ups or carry logs up mountain again. He would always do the punishment with us, though.”

“He sounds like he was a good friend,” Gaby offers.

The sound of laughter, of footsteps just slightly out of time on marble floors, echo in Illya’s ears. “We weren’t made to be able to have friends,” he tells Gaby. “Teammates, yes. Comrades, for those instructors who still hadn’t forgotten the Soviet Union. But friends… we were pitted against each other too often to allow for it.” He shrugged. “He tried anyway.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In every fic I've written with him in it, Markos has been dead, and yet I'm still weirdly attached to the character. I have a bunch of things I know about him in my head that may never see the light of day, so there's a good chance he might turn up in other stories- not in this universe, probably, unfortunately he is dead and staying dead, but maybe in other universes. Like the actual, honest to god coffee shop AU that has been started.
> 
> I'm super excited for you to read the next chapter after this one, because that's where the plot is going to start kicking in, so I might be nice and put it up later this week for you all! As always, I will post on my tumble theheirofashandfire when each chapter is going up, shout at me if you want to be tagged so you get a heads up, or hit the subscribe button up top to get a nice little email letting you know when the next chapter is ready to tear your hearts to pieces.


	4. Ticket

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Brace yourselves.

Napoleon ignores the time on the clock, and turns the page. The clock stares accusingly at him from the wall, that annoying minimalist design mocking him as the minute hand creeps around the face. With the library this quiet, this late in the evening, the tick of the second hand is just about audible over the rustle of paper and the sound of feverish typing from across the room.

Napoleon glances up and pulls a face at it. “Shut up,” he mutters. “You don’t know anything.”

He looks back down at the book, making himself stare at the words and read them loud in his head until he can’t think of anything else. Even his own internal voice sounds unconvinced.

Napoleon sighs, and puts the book down. It was a long shot anyway, unlikely to turn up anything useful for his own research, but he had to check. If not, the book would probably haunt him until he gave in and flicked through it. One of the perils of academia is that the most useful information can be found in the most unlikely of places.

Normally, Napoleon tries to guide his students towards critical reading, being able to recognise the validity or usefulness of a source before committing to it, but he has plenty of his own time at the moment to waste.

The clock ticks away up on the wall. Napoleon resists the urge to make another face at it, or check his phone. He reaches for the stack of papers beside him instead, pulling out a pen. There are always essays to mark or lectures to plan. He has plenty of important things to keep him here at this desk, in this corner of the library where he can just happen to see every exit.

The minute hand has crept all the way around back to its previous place when Napoleon hears the sound of footsteps approaching. He glances up, and isn’t sure whether it’s relief or apprehension that makes him slowly pull his headphones out of his ears and pause his music.

“You look like you’re on a mission,” he says cautiously as Cassie dumps her bag on the table and sits opposite him. “What’s wrong?”

“You look like you’ve entrenched yourself here,” Cassie replies. She arches a brow at the crisp packet tucked under Napoleon’s laptop. “Professor or not, you know that they’re going to get annoyed if they find you eating in here again.”

“Malka likes me,” Napoleon says. He flips the page of another essay, circling a poorly structured sentence and making a note in the margins. “She won’t tell anyone.”

Cassie sighs. “It’s late,” she comments. “Illya not home?”

“No, he’s there,” Napoleon mutters. He frowns, and scribbles a note in the margin of the essay. “These freshers really need to learn how to establish an argument properly. It’s all over the place. You can’t write a paragraph about how the Franco-German war influenced Cezanne’s early works, and then just skip to his influences on cubism without a second thought.”

“They’ll learn,” Cassie says reassuringly. “I did. They’ll get there too.” She rummages in her bag and pulls out an apple, flashing Napoleon a grin at the look on his face. “Malka likes me too. Thanks to you, actually.”

Napoleon hums, circling a sentence. He glances up from the work at the abrupt sound of a laptop slamming shut, and hurried footsteps. A student hurries past them, heading for the door. Napoleon only gets a brief look at his face, but it’s enough to see the clench of his jaw and slightly red eyes.

“Who’s that?” Cassie asks, twisting to watch them leave over her shoulder.

“Third year, I think,” Napoleon replies. “A transfer student, from what I’ve gathered. I’ve seen him in here a few times in the evenings over the past week or so.”

He watches the student leave, and makes a brief mental note to find out who his tutor is. If nothing else, he can check in with them.

Cassie bites into the apple with a loud crunch, and Napoleon’s pen skitters in his fingers. “Sorry,” Cassie says with a grin, around the mouthful of apple. She pauses when Napoleon can’t summon the energy to smile back. “Everything okay?”

“Oh, I’m fine,” Napoleon says, turning back to the essay and writing down another correction. “How’s the research coming along? Are you thinking of going back to the Parisian archives again, or is that exhausted?”

Cassie shrugs. “I might,” she replies. “Depends if I decide to go more obscure with the research or not. And if I go further afield than Western Europe. There’s something interesting to be talked about in terms of the reach of the movement further afield, especially into the lower social classes. Would make a nice change from discussing the sensitivities of the upper class and their more restricted social norms.”

Napoleon hums. “More obscure, definitely,” he remarks. “It would get you marks from those professors who consider a well-researched topic dead, and you have more room to make your own impact on the area.” He finishes off the essay and adds it to the steadily growing pile on the table. “Who knows, write it well enough and you could get it published somewhere good. Which you could, I think, if you put the effort in.”

“You’re slinging out the compliments today,” Cassie says with a grin. It fades as Napoleon just reaches for another essay and begins reading. “Are you sure you’re okay?” she asks. “Nothing you want to talk about?”

There’s something in the tone of her voice that makes Napoleon pause. “That’s a loaded question,” he says carefully, setting down his pen and looking up at her.

To her credit, Cassie just meets his gaze. “You go missing for a little under a week, only a short email telling us that you’re ill. When you come back, you’re favouring your right side a lot, and don’t think I missed the pack of painkillers that spilled out of your bag at one point. You’ve been looking tired for weeks now, and yet you’re spending more and more time here, late into the night sometimes. And I don’t think I’ve heard you mention Illya ever since coming back.”

Napoleon just stares at her. “Students talk,” Cassie says with a shrug. “Especially PhD students. We’ve noticed. I’m just the only one with enough…background knowledge, I suppose, to know what really could have happened.”

“You barely scratched the surface when you found out,” Napoleon says, trying not to remember that night, when the riots forced him to bring Cassie home and shelter her at theirs, when Illya stalked outside and came back with blood on his knuckles and a gun in his hand. “You can’t guess what happened any better than all the other students can.”

Cassie sits back, crossing her arms and arching a brow. “I can do a damn sight better than they can,” she replies. “But you’re going off track. Like I said before, I don’t need to know what happened. God knows I don’t deserve to know. But you don’t seem okay, and I’m asking- as a friend…do you want to talk about it?”

“Not in the slightest,” Napoleon says. He pulls the essay on the table towards him and picks his pen back up.

Cassie doesn’t seem to give in. “You know, I’ve talked to Gaby,” she says.

“Oh, for _Christ’s sake_,” Napoleon snaps, flinging his pen down. It leaves a long line of green ink across the edge of the essay. “So she’s been making my students pry into my life as well, has she? Well you can tell her to leave me alone and stop making my students do her dirty work, if you talk to her so much.”

Cassie recoils, shock flitting across her face. Just the sight of that makes Napoleon stop, any anger that was starting to rise being snuffed out in an instant. “Christ, I’m sorry,” he says softly. “I didn’t mean that.” He rubs his face, resisting the urge to swear. “Sorry, Cassie.”

“I’ve weathered far worse from other students,” Cassie says wryly. “Gaby did call me a couple of days ago, and she did ask me to check on you, but I would have done so anyway. You know, because you look like crap.”

Napoleon huffs a bitter laugh. “Eloquently put,” he replies. “But it’s a long story, and you are…you’re a civilian, Cassie.”

“I’m not afraid of a little gore,” Cassie says with a grin.

Napoleon just shakes his head, and watches as the grin on her face slowly fades. “You have no idea,” he gets out. “None at all. It’s not like it is in the movies, fast cars and martinis, or even the way that the character gets flung out of a window and just shakes it off.” He can’t help but grimace at that. His body still remembers how that feels.

“You know what I did,” he tells her, watching her face closely. “You can guess what that requires. It’s not movie-style gore, or heroically saving the world at the last minute and walking away attractively bloodied and bruised. It’s not…”

It’s holding a gun to someone’s head and watching a desperate fear contort their face. It’s stepping over dead bodies and not giving them a second thought, only to see their faces again in the middle of the night. It’s that relentless exhaustion that dogs their footsteps, the feeling that if they just tried a little harder, did a little more, sacrificed a little more sleep and life and humanity then they could save a few more people.

It’s stolen moments with Illya in between mission after mission, too short nights trading watches in safehouses that aren’t any notion of safe. It’s smiling a honey-sweet smile at a mark whilst Illya watches from the other side of the ballroom, following them back upstairs and trying not to give the game away.

It’s knowing that a squeeze of a trigger is such an easy movement for someone to make.

Cassie is staring at him when he resurfaces, brow furrowing slightly. “I’m not going to be responsible for giving you nightmares,” Napoleon says simply. “You’re not going to hear any of the stories. Not from me.”

Cassie slowly sits back in her chair. Napoleon can see her thinking, the way her eyes track across the table. It’s a familiar enough sight, though usually he is behind his desk and she is trying to formulate an argument, instead of sat in the library late at night whilst everyone else goes home.

“You don’t owe me anything,” she says slowly, staring down at the table. Napoleon can almost see the thoughts slotting into place, though he has no idea what they are.

“You’re my student,” he counters. “I have a duty of care.”

Cassie shakes her head. “I’m not talking about professor and student, or anything to do with this place. And I don’t mean that you should tell me because I asked or because I know a little more about it. What I mean is that you don’t owe me anything just because I found out what your job used to be before this. I have no place asking for those sorts of stories, or for you to tell me anything about the job you did just because I happened to be here when those riots started and you offered to drive me home. God knows I wouldn’t understand any of it anyway.”

She pauses, and then huffs a brief laugh. “Though if Gaby keeps hounding me with offers of money and free coffee, and I succumb to the offer of a job at UNCLE, then maybe I might find out what you got up to.”

Napoleon can’t quite explain the way his chest seizes at the thought of Cassie walking the hallways of that cold building. “Don’t you dare,” he says, and he finds his voice might suddenly snap under the weight of the words pooling on his tongue.

“Don’t you dare,” he says again. “Whatever you think I did during those years, whatever heroic stories you think exist, it’s not true. And don’t you dare join UNCLE and this godforsaken life because of me. Because of whatever it is you think I’ve managed to pull off. I won’t have another person get hurt because of that, least of all you.”

Cassie stares at him, and Napoleon realises he might have said too much. He carefully schools his face into some semblance of order, looking down at the essays on the table until he’s a little more under control.

“Promise me that,” he says abruptly. He’s not sure he meant to, but it’s too late now. “Promise me,” he repeats. He’s not sure if he sounds desperate or not. To his own ears it’s hard to tell, as if all the skills he’d picked up over that long and bloody stretch of past behind him mean nothing now.

Cassie breathes out slowly. “Solo,” she says softly. She cuts herself off, chewing on her lip. “I won’t promise that I won’t ever accept Gaby’s offer,” she says eventually. “It’s unlikely, but I don’t know. But if I do accept her offer, at any point, then I promise I will be doing it on my own terms and not because of whatever bullshit I think you got up to there.”

It doesn’t feel like enough, but Napoleon just swallows his next words and forces them down. “All I can ask, I suppose,” he says, a weak grin on his lips that Cassie obviously sees through in an instant.

“Like I said, I don’t have the right to ask for details,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “But I don’t need the details, or need to know what happened, to ask if you’re okay. Something is obviously wrong.”

Napoleon says nothing. His gaze drops to the essay on the table, but not quickly enough to see the twist of Cassie’s lips. “Is it Illya?” she asks. “Something between the two of you?”

“We’re fine,” Napoleon says. The words come out half strangled, too much of a lie for even him to pull off. He can’t help but grimace. “We’ll fix it.”

“Yes, because hiding out in the library is the best way to fix a relationship,” Cassie says wryly.

Napoleon glares at her. “It’s that, or go home and get into another argument,” he says. He grimaces again. “They’re not arguments, really. They’re too…there’s too much at stake.”

That, at least, feels like he’s telling the truth. There is too much at stake.

Dreams of half-forgotten ballrooms have woken him up night after night. The nights that they don’t, he wakes anyway to Illya murmuring Alexi’s name. There’s so much hanging in the empty spaces between them now; not just Alexi, but everything else they’ve dragged this far with them, backs aching with the strain.

He doesn’t even know where to start. Doesn’t know how to convince Illya to stay when he doesn’t even know what Illya should stay for. He’ll never doubt that Illya loves him, but Napoleon knows that love concedes all too often when overwhelmed by everything else, and it turns vicious and biting so easily when cornered.

“Do you love him?” Cassie asks.

Her voice, pitched soft in amongst the weight of all the books around them in the library, is enough to jolt Napoleon out of his thoughts. “Of course,” he says immediately. “More than anything.”

Cassie nods. “Then whatever this is, whatever is between you, it can be fixed,” she says.

Napoleon stares at her. “That is-”

“Don’t tell me I’m naïve,” Cassie says, cutting him off with a look. “That I’m idealistic, or that I don’t understand because I don’t know whatever it is that you’ve got in your pasts. We’ve already established that I have no right to know those things, but it doesn’t matter.”

“It doesn’t matter?” Napoleon asks, arching a brow. “Of course it matters. Everything behind us, everything that we’ve done and not done, everyone we’ve hurt…that is everything.”

“But you love him,” Cassie says steadily. “Yes?”

“He’s my fucking husband, of course I love him,” Napoleon snaps. “That’s not going to change.”

Cassie sits back. She looks satisfied. “There you go, then.”

“And what is that supposed to mean?” Napoleon asks. He takes a breath, tries to dampen down the rush that is skittering on the underside of his skin. It doesn’t quite work, but it’s enough to keep hold of himself.

“You said it yourself,” Cassie says. “The fact that you love him isn’t going to change. I’m willing to bet that it’s the same for Illya. So build up from that. You love each other. You both want this to work, to be resolved so that you can move on with your lives. Go from there.”

Napoleon can’t help but stare at her. “Since when did you become an expert on relationships?”

“Since my current girlfriend knocked some sense into me,” Cassie says wryly. “I’m not going to try and fix whatever is between you and Illya, of course. That would be really presumptuous and sticking my nose right in where it doesn’t belong. But you should go home and talk to him. Actually talk to him. Promise each other right at the beginning that you’ll both stop yourselves if you start trying to turn it into an argument, and then talk.” She shrugs. “Maybe buy him something nice. You know, to make up for the fact that you’ve essentially started haunting the library here in the past few weeks.”

“I’m not haunting anywhere,” Napoleon says automatically. He stops, letting his brain catch up with his mouth, and then huffs a brief laugh. “God, the youth of today,” he mutters. “Fine, yes, I’ll do that.” A sudden thought strikes him, and he reaches for his laptop.

“I’ll buy Hamilton tickets,” he says as he types. “We were going to see it when it first came out in the West End here, but Illya was still working then, and he got called away. He’s never actually seen it yet.”

“Any chance you’ll buy your poor PhD student a ticket as well?” Cassie asks. “You know, seeing as I just helped to save your marriage.”

“I know for a fact that your funding isn’t abysmal, and that you have enough money that you could buy a ticket to Hamilton,” Napoleon says, trying to find the right website. “And you haven’t saved anything. Just…nudged in the right direction.”

“Never mind, I’ll take it,” Cassie says with a grin. She gets to her feet, grabbing her bag from the table. “On that note, I should go. I promised my girlfriend I would watch the next episode of The Good Place with her.” She slings her bag over her shoulder. “Tell Illya I said hi.”

Her footsteps fade away, and Napoleon is alone in the library once again. He barely notices. He’s busy buying two tickets to Hamilton, and then sweeping up the essays strewn over the table and stuffing them into his bag.

He hadn’t noticed until now- or maybe he had, but was doing everything he could to ignore it because it was easier- but he misses Illya. There’s no particular thing he can think of, but there’s a nebulous ache in his chest that he knows will go away as soon as he gets home.

Cassie was right. Illya is still here, they’re still married. Maybe that might be enough to try and fix everything that has gone astray. Maybe, with the two of them together, like it’s always been, it’s enough to keep going.

0-o-0-o-0

It’s cold outside, winter really beginning to set into the city. Napoleon is shivering even from the short journey from the car to the front door. “Illya?” he calls out, pulling the front door shut behind him. “Illya? Are you home?”

There’s no answer, but there’s a newspaper open on the kitchen table and a mug of coffee that’s still slightly warm to the touch. “Illya?” Napoleon calls out again. “Are you in?”

There’s the patter of footsteps too light to be human, and then Laika barrels into the living room. “Hello, girl,” Napoleon murmurs, ruffling at her ears. “Where’s Illya, then?”

He pulls his phone out as he heads upstairs, getting the receipt for the Hamilton tickets up. They’re for a month or two from now, but they’ll be a good start to an apology. And then maybe they can sit down and have a proper conversation.

Illya is still here. He still loves him, more than anything. That has to be enough to start with, at least.

Now that he’s upstairs he can hear Illya moving around in their bedroom. “Peril,” he calls out, pushing the door open. “Can we talk? And promise each other not to argue if…”

He trails off as he looks up from his phone. Illya is standing on the other side of the bed, staring at him. There’s a folded jumper in his hands.

Napoleon looks down to see an open duffel bag on the bed. It’s already half-full.

“What’s going on?” he asks. His voice sounds like it’s coming from a tunnel, from somewhere far away.

He watches as Illya’s lips twist, as he puts the jumper into the duffel bag and pushes it down. “Oleg called.”

“You’re going back to Russia,” Napoleon says. He stares at the duffel bag, at the combat boots and camouflage uniform he can see folded neatly in the bottom. There’s a suit bag hanging up on the back of the door, Illya’s old regimental badge on the front.

Illya pulls a pair of trousers out of the chest of drawers. “There’s been a leak somewhere in the agency,” he says, not meeting Napoleon’s gaze. “In Oleg’s division. Two agents dead in a botched raid. He needs someone who he can trust to find the leak.”

“Someone he can trust?” Napoleon asks. “Jesus, Peril, you have to know he doesn’t trust you. He’s just doing this to get you under his thumb again.”

“He needs someone who he knows isn’t involved in the leak to find it,” Illya says stubbornly. “And I owe him.” He disappears into the bathroom for a few moments, reappearing with a washbag in hand. “I’m going, Cowboy. My plane leaves in two hours.”

“Oleg calls and you just come running then, is that it?” Napoleon asks bitterly.

Illya sets the washbag down in the suitcase, hand clenching around it until he forces himself to let go. “I keep my promises,” he says, his voice rough. “Even promises like this. He called in the favour I owe him, and I will see it repaid.”

“Are you going to come back?”

Illya stills. He finally looks up, looks right at Napoleon. “If you are asking,” he says slowly. “Then I already know what you think the answer is.”

“Answer the damn question, Illya,” Napoleon snaps. He can’t help it. There’s a fear slowly starting to sink in beneath his skin, burrowing down into his chest and setting every breath alight.

For a brief moment, he’d thought that maybe they were going to be okay. That they would get out of this intact. But Illya is packing a suitcase, is taking apart his handgun to slot into a carry case, and his dress uniform is hanging on the back of the door.

“Are you going to come back?” he asks. His voice is breaking, fault lines racing forwards and shuddering through him, and he grips the doorframe when his legs suddenly won’t take his weight.

Illya looks up. Something complicated crosses his face too quickly for Napoleon to make out, not when his vision is starting to blur. He blinks and it only gets worse.

Illya crosses to him, cupping his face in his hands. “Cowboy,” he says. “I have to go.”

“You don’t, though,” Napoleon gets out. He shrugs Illya’s hands off him, staggering the few steps forwards he needs to sit on the edge of the bed. He can feel Illya’s suitcase distorting the duvet behind him, the way it drags it down. “You don’t have to leave. You don’t owe Oleg anything.”

“I do,” Illya says, turning to follow him but not quite crossing that distance from the door to the bed. “I know you’ve never understood it, but I owe him so much. And I made him a promise. I made him a promise, and because of that, I got you back. I have to repay that.”

“You could stay,” Napoleon says. “What has Moscow got for you beyond more nightmare fodder? What has it ever done to you except keep you up at night?” He takes a breath, and it burns down through his lungs. “Tell me why it is so important that you go. That you go back to him.”

“Two people are dead,” Illya says. “Two agents who were just doing their jobs. Oleg is many things, but he would never sacrifice his agents like that. He needs someone he knows he can trust, who will find the leak and stop it. If it means that it will stop people dying, then I will go. I have to go.”

“Why?” Napoleon snaps. His voice shakes. “Why should it matter enough for you to just run straight back to Moscow?” His hands are trembling. He curls them into fists in his lap, but it doesn’t help. “Why is that enough for you to leave?”

He can hear Illya’s footsteps as he walks over, but stares stubbornly at the carpet until Illya crosses into his field of view. He kneels down in front of him, one hand smoothing over his knee.

“Cowboy.” Illya ducks his head, trying to catch Napoleon’s gaze. “Please don’t turn this into an argument.”

“What else do you want it to be?” Napoleon murmurs. That adrenaline has drained right out of him. His hands tremble, and he watches as Illya takes hold of them.

He’s so tired. He’s just so goddamn tired.

“I have to go,” Illya says. He reaches out and gently tips Napoleon’s chin up until Napoleon is looking at him. “I have to do it.”

Napoleon stares at Illya. He can’t help it. He’s searching the lines of the face that he knows so well for anything, anything at all that means they can salvage this. That he hasn’t ruined this one pitiful attempt at some sort of domesticity.

“Why?” he asks. “Why can’t you just stay?”

“What am I staying for, if I do?” Illya asks. His voice is soft, unbearably so, and it makes it all the worse. Napoleon can’t help the tremor in his hands now.

It’s strange to look down and see his hands trembling, held so gently by Illya’s rough hands as if he’s going to shatter and fall to pieces any moment. Usually it’s the other way around.

“Cowboy,” Illya says. He glances away briefly, throat working. “Everything I have done, it’s been for you. One way or another, it comes down to you. If you hadn’t been there, I likely wouldn’t be alive. If you hadn’t done it first, likely I wouldn’t have ever walked away from UNCLE. And then the job would have killed me, in the end. If you hadn’t been there.”

Napoleon tries to argue that, but Illya cuts him off. “Don’t argue it, you know I’m right,” he says. “There is so much I have done for you, or because of you. I don’t even know where I stop anymore, what I’m doing for me and what I’m doing because of you. And all of this, Alexi and everything that has happened…I need to know that I walked away for the right reasons.”

Illya stops, briefly bowing his head. “I’m sorry, I’m not making much sense,” he says. “But I have to go, Cowboy. I have to know…I need to know that I can come back on my own.”

“Are you going to come back?” Napoleon asks. “Do you promise?”

He can’t help the bitterness that seeps into his voice. God, he’s just so tired.

Illya hesitates. “And will you promise to be here when I do?” he asks. He shakes his head, glancing away from him. “Let’s not make any promises we know we might not be able to keep.”

“Illya,” Napoleon says. He doesn’t know what else to say.

Illya just nods. “I know,” he replies.

They stay like that for a long moment. Napoleon stares down at where Illya is holding onto his hand, listens to his own ragged breaths and the slow sound of Illya breathing next to him.

“I have to finish packing,” Illya says eventually, and the silence melts and trickles away to the corners of the room. “My plane is in two hours. Out of Gatwick.”

Napoleon takes a breath. “I’ll drive you,” he hears himself saying. “What else do you need to pack?”

0-o-0-o-0

Even late in the evening on a weekday, the departure terminal at Gatwick airport is busy. Business types stream past them, clutching briefcases and coffees like lifelines. The occasional tourist wanders around looking lost, trailing massive suitcases behind them.

Napoleon feels like an outsider, an observer set there to watch the movements of all these small, insignificant people as they hurry past. They barely give him and Illya a second glance, have no idea of what the two people standing in the middle of the terminal are capable of. Nor what they’ve done, over the long years they drag behind them like those suitcases trundling past.

Someone comes through the doors of the terminal and heads straight for them. Next to him, Illya stiffens slightly.

It takes all of a second for Napoleon to recognise him. The face isn’t familiar, but he recognises the walk, the way he glances around at the exits, where his hand drifts as someone brushes up against him.

“Sir,” he says in Russian as he reaches Illya. Napoleon can see the twitch in his hand where he stops himself from saluting. “Your ticket.”

“_Spasibo_,” Illya replies, taking it from him. He glances at the other man who is still standing there, trying not to stare at him. “On your way, Agent. Tell him that I’m coming.”

“Sir,” the agent says again, and then he strides away out of the airport.

“Oleg’s lackeys stretch as far as London, then?” Napoleon asks bitterly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised.”

Illya sighs, tipping his head back to stare at the ceiling. “Please don’t, Cowboy,” he says. “Not now. I don’t want this to turn into an argument.”

Napoleon sticks his hands in his pockets. “Fine,” he mutters. He blows out a breath. “Alright, fine.” He glances over at the check-in desks. The British Airways desks have just opened, _Moscow_ flashing up on the screens above. “Your gate is open,” he says unnecessarily. “You should check in.”

He doesn’t move as Illya heads over to the desk, just stands there and watches as he puts his duffel bag on the conveyor belt and pulls out his passport. It takes less than a minute in total, less than a minute before Illya is slipping his passport back into his pocket and walking back towards him.

“No trouble?” Napoleon asks.

“Oleg cleared the way,” Illya replies. “Didn’t even get my passport flagged.”

Napoleon snorts. “Of course he did,” he mutters. He catches the look that Illya gives him. “Right, sorry, no arguments,” he says. “How long until your gate opens?”

“Little under an hour,” Illya says, looking up to check the departure times. “The plane is on time.”

“Right.” Napoleon nods, looking away at the rest of the airport. “Should head through security, then. God knows how long they’ll take.”

“Cowboy,” Illya says. He reaches out, tugging Napoleon’s hands out of his pockets and lacing their fingers together. “Please don’t.”

Napoleon’s lips twist. He looks up at Illya, at the curve of his lips, that scar just above his eye. “Come back,” he says. He can’t help himself. “Please.”

Illya tugs him close, pressing his forehead against Napoleon’s. “Love you, Cowboy,” he says softly, the words falling quietly in the space between them. “Always have, and always will.”

Napoleon squeezes his eyes shut. He can hear Illya breathing, the slow rise and fall of his chest as he presses a palm against it. He wants to tell him not to go. He wants to tell him that everything can be fixed, that whatever this is, whatever rent Alexi has torn through their lives, it’s nothing that can’t be put back together.

But even he knows that’s a lie.

“Call when you land,” he says instead. “Let me know you’ve arrived safely.”

Illya presses a soft kiss to his lips. “Of course I will,” he says. “I’ll try and call every evening, if I can. Moscow is only three hours ahead of here.” He kisses Napoleon again.

It takes all that Napoleon has not to pull him closer, to grab hold of him and drag him back to the car, back to their house and the lives they’d attempted to have. He knows it’s pointless. He knows that this stab at domesticity has failed already. But it’s still so hard.

As it is, he can’t stop himself reaching up, smoothing a thumb across Illya’s cheek. “Be careful,” he says. “Don’t let that place get the better of you.” He kisses Illya again, a mere press of the lips. “Love you, Peril.”

Illya pulls back. “Love you, Cowboy,” he replies.

He turns and walks away. Gatwick swallows him up until he disappears, just yet another traveller to everyone around. They don’t know any better. None of them do.

Napoleon goes home. The house is dark, feels empty even with Laika winding around his legs. Illya’s newspaper is still on the kitchen table, the half-full mug of coffee long since cold.

Napoleon tips the coffee down the sink. The mug follows it a second later, ceramic shattering into pieces. Napoleon stares at them, hands gripping the edge of the counter until his knuckles turn white.

He doesn’t pick them up. He gets out a bottle of whiskey from the cabinet instead.

The first glass disappears in one gulp, the whiskey burning his throat as it goes down. Napoleon stares at the glass, rolling it over in his hands.

The sound of it shattering against the floor is only satisfying for a few moments before the despair creeps back in. Napoleon picks the bottle up and heads into the living room. He doesn’t bother with the glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm a terrible person, I know. It's going to get very interesting from here, both for Illya going back to Moscow and everything he walked away from, and for Napoleon still in London. We've still got quite a ways to go.


	5. Lubyanka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is what I mean by a slightly unstable posting schedule- final year master's project is interesting but time consuming, and there's a lot going on right now! I am going to try to post at least once a week, but I can't promise it will be the same day every week.

The cold Russian air reaches out for him as soon as he steps out of the airport, and sneaks under his coat like it’s trying to welcome him home.

Illya doesn’t bother to pull his coat tighter around himself. This is what the cold should feel like; the sharp snap across his skin, the burn down his throat as he breathes in. He takes another breath, and only realises now how poor London was at replicating this.

There’s an agent waiting outside, who nearly snaps a salute upon seeing Illya. He’s young, sharply dressed, and would blend in well amongst the businessmen hurrying out of the station if it weren’t for the noticeable bulge of a pistol in a shoulder holster and the way his eyes constantly dart around. As it is, people are giving him a wide berth, even if they don’t consciously realise they’re doing so.

This is Moscow, Illya thinks with a quiet pride. The people here are good at recognising their spies.

He stares out of the car window as the city rolls past them. It feels like he can barely get enough of it, like he needs to stop and stare to let the city imprint on him again, dig down into his bones and reaffirm itself there. He’s had a long life that has led him to many different places across the world, but Moscow will have always been there first.

For a brief moment there’s a flash of dark hair curling in the rain, the smell of a familiar aftershave, the sound of rain pattering against a kitchen skylight. He pushes it away, shoving it into one corner and staring intently at the city as it slowly unfurls itself in greeting.

“Oleg is waiting for you at Lubyanka,” the agent tells him as they get into the city centre, glancing over at Illya as he drives. “I can take your things to your hotel room for you, Sir.”

“Take me there first,” Illya says. If he knows Oleg, which he does, he’ll have been put up in one of the hotel rooms that the SVR keeps in the hotel on Lubyanka Square. Somewhere close enough to keep him in the loop and keep an eye on him at the same time.

He wonders briefly what has become of his old apartment here, the one owned by the SVR. When he left for UNCLE he’d managed to get someone to go and fetch anything valuable from there, but when he didn’t come back they would have burned everything else he’d owned on principle. Likely some other agent is living there now.

“Take me to the hotel,” he tells the agent. “I’ll make my own way to Oleg.”

The agent glances nervously at him. “Sir,” he says. “Oleg said to bring you straight to Lubyanka to brief you. It’s no trouble at all for me to run your bag up to your room.”

“Take me to the hotel, agent,” Illya says, his voice even. “I’ll deal with Oleg.”

He can actually hear the agent swallow. “Very well then, Sir,” he says. “You’ll need to check in-”

“I know,” Illya says steadily. “Just take me there.”

The room he’s given looks exactly the same as he remembers them being. He’d guarded an asset or two here, the jumpy ones who had needed babysitting at every step and who might get shot if they stepped outside without cover. He hadn’t done much of that. He’d been too valuable for something like that unless Oleg had actually been worried about an asset’s safety.

He calls Napoleon as he dumps his bag on the bed and pulls out a scanner. “Landed safely,” he says as soon as Napoleon picks up. “Just poking around the hotel room now.”

“Keeping Oleg waiting?” Napoleon asks, his voice crackling over the phone a little. “He won’t be happy with that.”

“He’ll cope,” Illya says shortly. He starts sweeping the room, pulling the bugs out of the normal hiding places. They’ve gotten a little more inventive since he last bugged one of these rooms, but it’s still far too easy. “I need to change anyway. Can’t exactly fly out of Heathrow in a Russian military dress uniform.”

He hears the short intake of breath over the line. “They need to remember who exactly I am,” Illya says shortly. He puts the phone on speaker and picks up the bedside lamp. “Before they come up with their own ideas.”

It’s easy to overlook, but there’s a small bug hidden in the light fittings of the lamp. It sticks when Illya tries to remove it, and he tugs too hard. There’s a sharp crack, and the fittings splinter and break apart.

“What was that?” Napoleon asks over the phone.

Illya picks up the bug that he’s worked free. “I’m updating their notions of privacy,” he says pointedly. He throws the bug through the open door of the bathroom to clatter into the sink.

There’s a brief laugh over the line from Napoleon. “Oh, those are always outdated,” he says. “Have you checked the overhead lights yet? When we were in Yemen that agent trailing us did love hiding the bugs in the overhead lights.”

There’s a sudden frisson that runs through Illya at the memory. For a moment time slips, past and present sliding too close to each other like boats caught together on the wrong wave, their hulls scraping for a long moment. This could be nearly a decade ago, him and Napoleon split up for different parts of a mission and stuck in separate cities, chatting on the phone as they debug their rooms. It could be only a few short years ago, Illya still working for UNCLE and calling home to Napoleon in the brief moments in his hotel room, talk of lectures and seminars and students washing over him.

The moments stick, and then spring apart. Illya breathes out. “Yes, I remember that,” he says.

He pulls out his suit bag and unzips it. His dress uniform stares back at him, the dark green slightly faded after all these years. His medals are pinned to the breast, small strips of ribbons perfectly positioned. The four gold stars sit on the shoulders, signifying the rank of _kapitan_. He’d been pulled from the spetsnaz and into the SVR before he could be promoted to Major.

“You still there?” Napoleon asks over the phone.

“Yes, I’m still here,” Illya replies. He doesn’t look away from his uniform. It’s not the smartest, not technically even a proper dress uniform for anyone else in the army, but then he’d never cared about looking smart. None of them had. They’d taken pride in wearing a uniform that wasn’t covered in frills or fancy ruffles that would have just made life hell out in the field.

He reaches out and straightens one of the ribbons on the breast of the jacket. “I have to go,” he hears himself say distantly. “I need to get changed and meet Oleg.”

Napoleon sighs, a rustle of static over the line. “Yeah, okay,” he says quietly. “Just…call me when you can, okay? In the evenings, I’ll probably be busy at work for most of the day. Let me know how…just let me know how it’s going, okay?”

“I will, Cowboy,” Illya says. He pulls the uniform off the hanger and lays it out on the bed.

“Okay, I’ll speak to you later then,” Napoleon says. “Love you, Peril.”

“Love you, Cowboy,” Illya replies automatically. The sound of the phone dial whines through the room.

The uniform still fits, even after all these years. Illya pulls the beret onto his head, smoothing it down until it nearly touches his left eyebrow. It feels like days since he’d last put it on.

When he looks in the mirror, it really could just be days since last wearing this uniform. He stares back at himself for a long moment, adjusts his collar so it lies flat, and leaves.

He steps into Lubyanka, shuts the door behind him, and falls twenty years straight into the past.

It’s the smell, he thinks as he walks through the halls. It still smells like it did when he first walked into this place, the must of a building too big and too old to ever resemble anything new. There’s no particular name that Illya can put to it, no particular scent, and if anyone had asked him to describe it he wouldn’t even know where to start.

This building is old, built on old ground in a city that has endured wars and famines and winters that try to strip its people to the bone. There’s that musty undertone of old velvet curtains and carpets that haven’t been moved for decades, but beyond that, the very air just smells _aged_. The stones have borne witness to hundreds of years of history and it has seeped out into the air, saturating every breath that he takes.

For a brief moment it feels that if Illya just reaches out and tugs, latches onto that smell and _pulls_, then the fabric of the universe will bend around him. If he shuts his eyes and takes a step, then just maybe he’ll open them to see Markos falling into step beside him.

Nobody stops him as he walks through the halls, his feet easily remembering the way. A young agent stutters to a stop as he walks past him. Illya barely has any time to look at him before the man is saluting, standing to attention in the middle of the hallway. “Sir,” he says, eyes wide.

Illya doesn’t break stride as he salutes back. “At ease,” he says, and the agent scurries away.

That, at least, is different from before. It wasn’t until the last few years of his service here that anybody recognised who he was, but it has been over a decade since then.

Some of the stories must have even made it all the way out here.

The halls slowly become less opulent and more functional as he descends further into the heart of the building. Red carpets and high vaulted ceilings give way to grey walls and twisting corridors. The mask of richness upstairs is pointless down here, down where the civilians can’t reach. Anyone who walks through these corridors know what they do down here.

The main office for Oleg’s agents is in one of the corners of the building. Illya pushes open the doors and falls back twenty years all over again.

Desks are spread out across the large open room, all centred around the large console at the head. A cluster of agents are gathered around it at the moment, watching projections flashing up across the screen and talking amongst each other. Illya can’t hear what they’re saying, they’re too far away for that, but just the sound of people speaking Russian is enough to settle against his skin. The sound of typing fills the background, agents working at their desks. A coffee machine hisses and someone swears at it. There’s a whine of static cutting through the room, white noise from a radio sitting next to the console set to standby as someone waits for an agent to call in.

This was the background noise to his life for over a decade. Illya spent most of his life, when he wasn’t out on assignment in some corner of the world being shot at, in this room. Some things have changed; the computers are newer, the console has been upgraded from the blurry projection it had been back then and the coffee machine now looks like a monstrosity, but the sounds are exactly the same.

Oleg looks up from a computer that he’s bent over. “Kuryakin,” he says, his voice cutting through the room. “You’re late.”

Slowly, the chatter of the room ceases as one by one, agents turn and stare. Illya steps in, letting the door fall shut behind him. “Couldn’t exactly travel in a uniform,” he replies. It’s a relief to be able to slip into Russian, to speak his own language instead of translating everything that people around him say. “The British police would have gotten very nervous.”

There’s a ripple of quiet laughter through the room. Oleg’s expression remains impassive, but Illya wasn’t expecting anything else.

He looks old, now that he has the chance to study him. It’s one of the only things, besides the new computers and console taking up nearly an entire wall, that stops Illya from slipping and falling back entirely to those two decades ago. Oleg’s face is lined and weathered, his hair now grey. There’s a slight limp in his left leg as he steps forwards, and Illya remembers hearing about a botched assignment a few years ago, a bullet to Oleg’s leg that was only kept from being worse by another agent’s death protecting him.

“My office,” Oleg says, turning on his heel. “I’ll brief you there. Everyone else, don’t you have better things to do than gape?”

There’s a sudden murmur as everyone quickly turns back to their screens or consoles. Still, though, Illya catches the glances of agents as he passes them out of the corner of his eye, quick looks that dart away as quickly as if they’re afraid of being caught. He can’t tell if the looks carry derision or awe, or some strange mixture of both of them.

Oleg’s office is the same as he last saw it, though the pictures on the walls have changed slightly and there are a few more flags around the place. There are still bookshelves crammed full of military history and state politics lining the wall, still that obnoxious high-backed chair behind the polished desk, though it looks worse for wear since he last saw it a little over a decade ago.

It was nearly twelve years ago that he sat in here, Oleg behind that desk, and was handed that damning folder on the Victoria Vinciguerra and her efforts to take over the never-ending arms race across the world. Now, Oleg slides in behind the desk with a little less grace, and Illya sinks into one of the chairs opposite.

“Uniform, Kuryakin?” Oleg asks as he unlocks a drawer. “I didn’t know you still had it.”

“It’s been a while since I have walked through Lubyanka,” Illya replies steadily. “I thought it worth reminding people who I am and where I came from.”

At that, Oleg arches a brow. “I don’t think many of them are likely to forget in a hurry,” he says. “You still leave quite an impression here, Kuryakin. Despite your…defection.”

“The Cold War ended nearly thirty years ago,” Illya answers, staring straight back at Oleg. “And UNCLE is an international organisation with no individual national interests. It was somewhat impossible for me to defect.”

Twelve years ago, that would have earned him an ashtray thrown at his head. A few years before that, and someone would have just hit him and not given him a chance to duck out of the way. Now, Oleg does little more than grimace. “Time away from here has done nothing to improve your manners, I see,” he says reproachingly. “But never mind.” He pulls out a thick file from a desk drawer, pushing it across the polished surface.

Illya picks it up. “The leak?” he asks.

When he flicks it open, faces stare back up at him from photos. There are incident reports beneath, and Illya only has to skim the first one to see that something went really wrong. “This was a targeted raid, yes?” he asks, flicking through to find an aerial map of the compound. “The objective?”

“Capture a high-level target with information on Daesh plots being carried out in this country and across Europe,” Oleg replies. “Needless to say, they were waiting for us.”

Illya grunts. “The target?” he asks.

“As far as we know, injured but alive,” Oleg says. “I have my agents here currently working on finding and capturing the target again. But I need you, Kuryakin, to find this leak. You’ll come to the same conclusion that I did, after reading that file. Only a leak of information from this building could have resulted in this scenario. This operation was highly classified, and not known outside of the teams that worked on it under me, and the spetsnaz support.”

“They can be trusted?” Illya asks immediately.

“They were under your old Commander’s command, and they had minimal details on the operation beyond providing tactical support,” Oleg says. “They weren’t involved in the planning steps.”

Illya hums. He’ll make his own mind up about that. “I’ll need access to all audio and visual recordings of the raid,” he says, reading through one of the reports and internally wincing at how wrong it went. “And anyone who was there or present in the situation room monitoring the raid. And pretty much all of the SVR agents here.”

“As many as can be accessed without raising suspicion,” Oleg acquiesces. “This must be kept quiet. I am monitoring for further leaks, but it could be any of the agents or support staff with access to this information. Any one of the hundreds of people in this building. Until the identity of the leak is determined, this does not go further than this office.”

“And why does everyone else think I am here?” Illya asks. “People will talk regardless.”

“I am well aware of how much spies gossip,” Oleg says, a glower on his face. “They have been told that you are here to consult on capturing this target again, so that you are able to access resources and people surrounding this raid without arousing suspicion.” He gets to his feet and heads to the door of his office, propping it open.

It’s been over a decade, but Illya can still predict what Oleg wants without him saying anything. He gets to his feet and joins him at the door.

“They won’t answer to you, but you will be able to review any decision they make,” he says, nodding out at the agents strewn across the room. “There are fourteen senior agents in this office under my direct command, working on various assignments. Some of them were here when you were, but most of them you won’t know. We also have ten junior agents currently shadowing the senior agents, learning the ropes.” He nods at a cluster of younger agents standing around a desk.

Now that Oleg has pointed them out, Illya recognises the way they mill about, reluctant to be the first to step forwards. He snorts. They’ll lose that quickly. It won’t be long before they’re cutting each other off at the knees to get ahead, trying to beat all the rest to the top.

“Anyone interesting?” he asks.

“Too soon to tell,” Oleg replies, in that voice that means he doesn’t want to give Illya an answer and doesn’t care what Illya thinks. “Some potential, though.”

Illya studies them carefully. They seem subdued at the moment, talking quietly amongst themselves as they surround a computer. He can pick out the senior agent easily, the one that they all keep looking to. At the moment, most of them are little better than open books.

Illya nods, crossing his arms as he starts to memorise their faces, the way that they hold themselves. One of them glances up from the computer, and the profile of his face suddenly strikes Illya. “That one, the blond, looks familiar,” he says, not quite meaning to.

To his surprise, Oleg snorts in amusement. “You probably met him when he was a boy,” he replies. “That’s Dmitri Yuvchenko.”

Illya arches a brow. “Any relation to the Minister of Foreign Affairs?” he asks. He watches as Dmitri picks up a file and starts reading it, twisting to hold it out of the reach of another agent trying to read over his shoulder. He looks young, barely over twenty-two, and for a moment Illya feels old.

“His nephew,” Oleg confirms. “Came up through the spetsnaz.”

Illya nods. He can see the muscle on him, now that he’s looking, the familiar build of an agent that knows what hard work really is. Dmitri glances up, as if aware that someone is staring at him, and looks straight at Illya.

It takes him a full few seconds before he looks away. Illya is reluctantly impressed.

“You’ll have that office,” Oleg says, nodding at a closed door. “So you’re not doing any of your work out in the open.” He hands Illya a key. “All the relevant files are in the safe there already. See me if you want to request more. I trust you can remember how this place works?”

Illya nods. This place is ingrained into his bones. He thinks he could be away for decades and his feet would still know which way to go.

“Oh, and Kuryakin?”

Illya looks back at Oleg. He’s seen him in many states before, from apoplectic with rage to grimly satisfied to even a little drunk after one too many shots of vodka, but he doesn’t ever think he’s seen him look this tired.

There are two agents recently dead, he suddenly remembers. There are desks standing empty, still cluttered with the detritus of someone’s life. There’s a grief caught in the air, though subdued and quiet. This is Russia, after all. This is Moscow, this is the SVR. They do not do grieve well, not with the jobs they lead. And it is taking its toll on the people still in this room.

He looks at Oleg expectantly, and wonders when it was that Oleg became shorter than him.

“I’m counting on you to get this done, Kuryakin,” Oleg says. “Do not disappoint me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh Illya. You've got to be more careful.


	6. Brine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Got distracted by watching history documentaries on Netflix and almost forgot to publish a chapter this week, but got here in the end. To everyone asking, yes, Dmitri is important, but I'm not telling you how just yet. Thanks as always to the amazing people (yes you, I mean you) reading and leaving kudos and commenting. You're the best.
> 
> Brace yourselves. We're going back to Napoleon, and everyone in the comments is right, he's not taking this too well.

“So I want you to go away and explore the notion of the three solids and how Cézanne’s idea evolved with the evolution of the early twentieth century. Go further into the early days of analytic cubism, if you want to, there are some interesting notions regarding the spread into literature, but don’t go too far. I want in-depth analysis with your own interpretations, not a list of the history.”

There are murmurs of assent around the lecture hall as Napoleon finishes, and the ritual stuffing of bags as quickly as possible before there is a bottleneck at the doors. Napoleon slips his laptop into his bag and leaves before any students can grab him and start asking questions.

The corner of the library is quiet, as usual. Napoleon spreads his work out and only just avoids checking his phone. Illya won’t call. It’s the middle of the afternoon in Moscow, and he’ll be deep in the bowels of Lubyanka and the SVR, busy forgetting London and anything tying him back here.

There’s no news on anything going on in Moscow through the usual back channels that Napoleon knows about, nothing after the news of the two dead agents in the middle of Syria. Napoleon resists the idea of doing a little bit of digging. It would only make more trouble for Illya when the Russians eventually notice him getting into their mainframe to pull the files.

He’s revising the second half of his third chapter of his article, the one he has no idea how to finish, when the soft click of heels comes closer and stops beside his desk. He looks up to see Joanna looking down at him.

“Busy?” she asks.

“Actually, somewhat,” Napoleon replies. “If you want that journal article done on time.”

It doesn’t matter. Joanna is already sliding into the chair opposite him. Napoleon gives her a look. “Doesn’t the head of the department have better things to do than chat to a professor?”

Joanna flicks her hair over her shoulder. “When the head of the department is a former MI5 agent, and the professor in her department is a former UNCLE agent who just nearly lost his husband to a rogue SVR agent from his husband’s past…” She shakes her head. “Then I don’t have better things to do.”

Napoleon rolls his eyes. “God, does everyone want to mother me?” he asks.

Joanna stares him down. “I heard what happened, Solo,” she says quietly. “And I heard that Illya left for Moscow a few days ago.” Her expression softens. “He’ll come back, Solo.”

Napoleon huffs a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I’m sure,” he mutters. Joanna opens her mouth, but he glares at her. “Don’t feed me some fairy-tale story, Joanna. You used to play this godforsaken game. You know how much promises are worth.”

“And I know how much Illya loves you,” Joanna counters. “I’ve known you both for a few years now, and I’ve known of you for much longer. Do you honestly think he’s ever going to give you up? After everything I’ve heard you two do?”

Napoleon’s anger streaks through him. “Don’t you dare,” he spits at her. “Don’t you dare bring those things up.”

“What things?” Joanna asks, crossing her arms.

“Those stupid fucking…those damn stories that everyone seems to believe,” Napoleon says, wrestling his voice down when a nearby student glances up. “Don’t pretend like you don’t know what the fuck I’m talking about.”

Surely it’s common knowledge, now. Surely the word has spread by now. Napoleon Solo, the great fraud. Pretending to be a normal person like there isn’t a body count scattered behind him, people he didn’t even know were dead until their ghosts drove more people to stumble blindly behind him and fall into all the traps he was stupid enough to avoid.

Pretending like there’s a future for people like him. That people with a body count that keeps rising and rising, bodies dragged through the mud and blood until they’re unrecognisable, can just walk away and pretend like they can’t see the corpses every time they look over their shoulder.

There’s a leak somewhere, a gash in his side that spills blood out onto the trail behind him and burns the feet of anyone who dares try to tread in his footsteps.

“You are many things, Napoleon Solo,” Joanna says. There’s a note of sympathy in her voice as she looks at him, and Napoleon feels like she’s slowly pulling him apart from the inside. “And you have done many, many things over the years. But even you cannot govern how the game is played.”

“Then what is the fucking point?” Napoleon asks, breaking away from her gaze before it seems to tear him apart. “What was the fucking point of all those hellish years if people just get themselves killed over it and Illya still walks away?”

His heart is hammering in his chest. It’s the only sound in the sudden silence that falls around them, their own little bubble far away from the worlds of art history and students who have no idea of how close the world comes every day to falling down around their ears. None of them know. None of them have any idea just what sits in their midst, stands in front of them and pretends to be a real professor.

Joanna’s expression turns pitying, and Napoleon can’t stand it. “I have a workshop to teach,” he says. His chair shrieks against the floor as he shoves it back, stuffing his laptop into his bag.

“Solo,” Joanna says, but her voice fades as he stalks past her, and Napoleon keeps moving.

His office is too damn quiet, but he puts his head down and dives into the article. He used to be able to write his dissertation on planes flying out on missions or on the way back home, battered and exhausted. One memorable occasion, he had a moment of inspiration and managed to type out two pages of the dissertation whilst in the back of a getaway car. It had only needed about an hour’s worth of work to fix the typos that were inevitable with Gaby’s driving.

If he can argue that the influence of Marie Bracquemond on French Impressionism was undervalued by the main populous and harshly critiqued due to the fear of the upper class at a woman’s encroachment on what was perceived as a male-dominated area of art, whilst sprawled in the back of a car going eighty down country lanes and occasionally having to shoot back at the pursuers through the window, then he can damn well get on and finish revising this chapter in the quiet of his office.

It’s getting dark earlier and earlier now, winter slowly slinking past the city lights and curling around the old bones of this place. When Napoleon finally realises the time, chivvied out of his office by the cleaners on their rounds, it’s long since gone dark outside.

He takes the car back home. It’s too far to walk, and the Tube, large crowds of aimless tourists travelling in packs like massive shoals of dumb, dumb sardines, is out of the question. Even thinking about being crowded on the escalators, with all those idiots who don’t understand the simple rule of _walk on the left, stand on the right_, makes his skin crawl with irritation.

There’s a light shining through the front window of his house when he pulls up.

Napoleon doesn’t think before reaching for the glove compartment, for the gun that is in a hidden pocket there, the one he’s kept there ever since limping home after Alexi. The grip sits easily in his hand as he slides out of the car, keeping low and out of the direct line of the window.

There’s a cold rage curling in his gut. It’s familiar. It’s an echo rippling through from decades ago when it first unfurled, desperate and frantic against a raised voice and a clenched fist, honed by years and years of use. It urges his fingers to tighten around the gun’s grip, his thumb to hover above the safety. It pushes him to aim to hurt, and leave whoever has dared to break into his house writhing on the floor.

Napoleon Solo was a legend well before the CIA ever managed to get a hold of him, after all. And Illya’s voice, the one that was beside him through all those tangled years at UNCLE trying to be something he’s not sure he is, is so very quiet all the way from Moscow.

It’s easy for him to straighten up, standing at the bottom of the steps. They’ll already know that he’s here. He won’t give them the satisfaction of watching him slink up to his own house like it’s somewhere he should be afraid of.

Napoleon stalks up to his front door.

The door opens under his hand. Napoleon flings it open, bringing his gun up. “Whoever the fuck has broken into my own goddamn home, you have five seconds before I start shooting to put down any weapons, walk out with your hands up and beg for my forgiveness.”

There’s a shadow, a flicker of the light spilling from the living room door as someone moves in front of the lamp. Napoleon’s grip tightens around his gun.

The door swings open and Gaby leans against the doorway. “Hello, darling,” she says quietly.

Napoleon suddenly feels empty. Like someone has yanked a blade out of his side and everything has drained away through the wound, all that rage just leaking away and leaving an aching, wounded emptiness behind at the sight of Gaby in front of him.

“You didn’t think to tell me you were coming?” he gets out. He lowers the gun down, busies himself with checking the safety and putting it away to hide the tremor running through his hands. “Christ, Gaby, I thought someone had broken in.”

Gaby looks down at the gun, watches as he puts it in a drawer in the side table and locks it. “Obviously,” she says. “Is that how you’d normally deal with a break-in? Don’t the neighbours have anything to say?”

Napoleon pushes past her. This is his own goddamn house, he’s not going to stand in the hallway and try to explain everything to her. Without really thinking about it, he heads for the drinks’ cabinet. The first glass of whiskey goes down in one gulp.

“Why are you here?” he asks.

Gaby trails him into the kitchen, leaning against the back of a kitchen chair. “Where’s Laika?” she asks. She glances over to the corner where her bed normally is. Napoleon follows her gaze, and tries not to look away at the sight of the missing bed and bowls.

“Mark has her,” he says, pouring himself another few fingers of whiskey. “With Illya…in Moscow, I don’t have time to exercise her properly around work. Mark said that he’d take her and look after her until everything gets sorted out.”

Gaby looks unimpressed. “There are professional dog walkers, you know,” she says. “It’s not like you have insufficient funds or anything.”

“Yes,” Napoleon drawls. “Because letting a stranger into my house, the house with weapons stashed everywhere, when I’m not at home, would be such a fantastic idea. I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.” He levels her with a look. “Tell me you would honestly hand over the keys to your flat to a stranger you hired, and I’ll call Mark right now to get him to bring Laika back.”

Gaby is silent, and Napoleon smiles tightly at her over the rim of his glass. “My point precisely.”

“Still, it’s a big house for you to be all on your own in,” Gaby says. She glances around her. Napoleon follows her gaze, and it’s easy to notice what she lingers on. There’s an empty whiskey glass sitting on the coffee table that he’d forgotten about last night, a few books haphazardly left lying on the couch. One of them is face down, the spine cracked open. Gaby wanders over and picks it up, carefully slotting a discarded bookmark in place and smoothing out a crumpled page.

“Busy at work?” she asks, fingers trailing over the front cover of the book. “I’ve barely heard from you in the past few days.”

“There’s an article that’s proving stubborn to write,” Napoleon says, picking up the empty whiskey glass and putting it in the sink like there’s nothing wrong. Gaby glances at him out of the corner of her eye. “Want a drink?” he asks.

“No, I’ve had far too much coffee today,” Gaby replies. She leans back against the arm of the sofa. To anyone else, the movement would look natural. But Napoleon has spent a decade beside her, watching her swelter in safehouses, draped across the one rickety bed whilst he and Illya sleep on the floor in the hole that passes as a living room, pretending like they’ve being chivalrous but really curling together despite the heat. He’s watched her late at night in the offices of UNCLE, sprawling in a chair half-asleep as they go over the intelligence one last time before heading out in the morning to another godforsaken part of the world where everyone starts shooting at them as soon as they step off the plane. He’s stood on the other side of the mirror whilst she sits across from a prisoner and interrogates him, not with a bucket of water and a wet cloth but with soft spoken words and small smiles, leaning back in those hard metal chairs like it’s an armchair.

He knows when Gaby is really relaxed, and he knows when she is playing along because she has something else in sight. He just isn’t quite sure what she wants from him.

“Tea, then?” he asks. “There’s decaf somewhere in the cupboards.”

“Tea is fine,” Gaby says. She follows him into the kitchen, pulling a mug out of the cupboard. Napoleon turns his back and busies himself with the kettle.

Even at the end of the day, with her hair falling out of her messy bun and her blouse speckled with what looks like engine oil, Gaby looks put together in a way that immediately makes Napoleon smooth out his crumpled sweater and try to push his hair back into some semblance of order. He juggles the handle of the kettle, like it’s going to make it boil faster.

“So, what’s this article about?” Gaby asks as she leans against the counter and pokes the teabag in the mug.

Napoleon’s hand clenches around the fridge handle without him asking it to. He pushes it down, shoves viciously at the remnants of that coiling rage that had wrapped around him only a few minutes ago and snarls at it to _stay the fuck down_. Gaby doesn’t need this. She’s just trying to help.

He makes it two minutes, talking aimlessly about the article he’s writing, before he gives in. The whiskey glass in his hand nearly cracks with the force that it’s slammed down onto the counter with. “Why are you here, Gaby?” he asks.

“What, I can’t drop in on one of my oldest friends to have a chat?” Gaby asks. She crosses her arms and leans back against the counter. “There used to be a time where we didn’t go more than a day at most before one of us dropped by to say hello.”

“Used to be,” Napoleon snaps. “That’s exactly it, Gaby, _used to be_. I’m not an agent anymore. I haven’t been one for years. You need to stop pretending like you can just treat me like one of your damn underlings.”

“And yet, when you saw a light on in your house, your first response was a gun,” Gaby says coolly. “Not to wonder if you’d accidentally left the light on when you left for work. You pulled out a gun that you’d stashed in your car and walked right on in. That’s not a civilian response, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Napoleon stares at her. “You’re not answering my question,” he says, his voice cold. “Why the fuck are you here?”

Gaby stares him down for a long moment. “Joanna called,” she says eventually. “She’s worried. So am I.”

Napoleon picks the whiskey glass up, turning it over in his hand as he traces the patterns of the glass with a thumb. He presses his thumb down into one groove, watching the nail slowly turn white. “So,” he says slowly, not looking up at her. “My current boss calls my former partner, gives her the details of a conversation I’d assumed had been private, and said former partner breaks into my own damn house to try and interrogate me?” He laughs, the sound bitter and cracking through his vocal cords. “You used to have more subtlety than that, Teller.”

He can see Gaby bristle out of the corner of his eye. “I’d assumed that I didn’t need subtlety with you, Solo,” she says abruptly. “I thought I’d be able to talk to my friend and see if I can help.”

That empty, gaping hole slowly fills with a cold anger again, rising up from the bottom of his feet like a tide slowly coming in. “You assumed that you could just interfere without consequences, that you could waltz in here and expect me to bend to your every whim,” he says, his voice slowly rising until he can taste salt water on his lips, spilling over with every word and burning his tongue.

“You’re being ridiculous,” Gaby snaps, pulling herself up. “I am your friend, and I am concerned for you. I know better than almost anyone what the hell you’ve been through.”

“Do you?” Napoleon says. He rounds on her, whiskey glass still clutched in one hand. “Do you really? Do you have any idea how hard we tried to drag ourselves away from your godforsaken agency, how we tried to make ourselves into anything but the agents you still think we are? Do you know how many things we gave up to try and have this fucking life, only to find out that it was never possible, that I was just kidding myself this entire time?”

The salt water is choking him now, rising up and stealing his lungs from him, drowning him in the middle of his kitchen. “You have no fucking idea,” he says. “You have no idea what anything is outside of your precious agency and that fucking, godawful game you are playing. You’re wasting your time.”

“God, your head is so far up your own arse, Solo, that it’s no wonder you’re spouting so much bullshit,” Gaby says fiercely. She crowds into his space, snatching the whiskey glass from his hand and slamming it down on the counter behind him. “We had each other’s backs for nearly a goddamn decade. We fought for each other, we nearly died for each other, and that doesn’t go away if I am not living in your fucking pocket anymore! I can be the Director of UNCLE and still worry about you, because someone just tried to kill you and Illya and apparently turned your whole world upside down.”

She glares up at him, her expression fierce and unyielding, but Napoleon can see the worry in the pinch of her brow, the way her eyes flit across his face. “I have seen you deny things time and time again, Solo, and I have seen it go wrong for you down the line _every_ time. So drop the act. Let somebody fucking help you fix things for once.”

Napoleon stares back at her. “You are wasting your time,” he says slowly, ice coating his voice. “You left us behind the moment we left UNCLE. You don’t get to decide to interfere now just because you want to, because it will make you feel better, like you aren’t trading lives like a goddamn currency every day.”

He hits his mark. Gaby pulls back, her expression slowly turning from anger to fury to something tinged with disgust and sorrow and something that could be pity, if it weren’t for everything they’d already done that made pity a near impossible thing.

Napoleon doesn’t care. “Get out of my house.”

Gaby snatches her handbag from the table. “One day, Napoleon Solo,” she says warningly. “One day, you are going to say something you really can’t come back from.”

The door slams behind her.

Napoleon sinks down to the kitchen floor. He doesn’t move from there for a long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I did warn you. Things are going to get even worse for Napoleon (and Illya) before there's even a chance of them getting better. There's someone wandering around London right now who is going to appear soon enough and turn Napoleon's entire world upside down.


	7. Bugged

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really did mean to put a chapter up on the weekend, and then I...didn't. So have a longer chapter to make up for it!

There’s a satisfying click as the bug comes away from the light fitting, and Illya tosses it down to join the others on the desk. He’s built up a small collection now, scavenged from around his office. Somehow, he’s not surprised.

“So…” A voice drawls from the doorway. “The rumours are true.”

Illya steps down from the chair he’s standing on, sweeping the bugs from the desk into an empty glass. He cracks open a bottle of water and pouring it over the bugs to a chorus of sparks before looking up at the figure standing in the doorway. “I wondered when you would turn up. Come to gloat?”

“Over what?” Azra asks. She steps into his office, pulling out a chair and seating herself in it like she’s always belonged. “Last I heard, everything was going well. Other than your marriage being on the rocks and you crawling your way back here to Oleg, of course.”

Illya’s hand tightens around the water bottle. “Napoleon and I are fine,” he says shortly. “And I am repaying a debt. Not that you would understand what that means.” He sits down opposite her, trying not to let her know that he finds any comfort of a desk between them. “Why are you here?”

Azra runs one hand over the edge of the desk, tapping her fingernails on the wood. “I’m curious,” she says, glancing up at Illya with a flash of a grin. “About what exactly brought you all the way back to this place. And out of retirement, as well.”

“People like us are never really retired,” Illya says automatically. He tries not to let the wince show on his face as Azra grins knowingly at the admission. “He pulled me in to consult on the target that escaped.”

Azra hums. “And I suppose you have nothing to do with finding the leak that’s making Oleg tear out his hair, then?”

Illya is so sure that nothing shows on his face, but Azra’s grin widens anyway. “Oh, so that’s what it takes to get you to walk away from your husband,” she says slyly. “If only we’d known that, then I’m sure Oleg would have tried something sooner.”

Illya bristles at her. “I am here to repay a debt, and then I am gone,” he says sharply. “Nothing more.”

“Of course,” Azra drawls. She studies her fingernails. “Would you stay if it was ten dead agents instead of two? I’m sure that can be arranged.”

“That is treasonous talk,” Illya points out automatically. Despite himself, the beginnings of a smile curl at the very edges of his lips. Azra might have never been a friend, but there is a certainty in their conversation, familiar refrains from the days they worked together in that room outside this office, sniping at each other because to sit in silence was to remember everything that was going on around them.

An answering smile is on Azra’s face, just managing to soften the edges of that sharp grin. “It is good to see you, though, Illya,” she says. “When Napoleon somehow managed to find me and call me, begging for a favour that I couldn’t repay, I thought you might be dead. That I might have misjudged Alexi in his grief. And then when you called me from London, I was sure that all of this would end with someone dead.”

Alexi screams at Illya to kill him. Napoleon’s blood is slick under Illya’s hands. “It nearly did,” he hears himself say. “There was a hush order, then?”

“Until you decided to owe Oleg a favour that would get you all the way here, we weren’t allowed to even discuss Alexi within this building,” Azra says. “He’d disappeared straight after the funeral, after drowning his liver in alcohol and nearly revealing all his secrets to one of us, and we were left not knowing where he was or what he might do, and with half his secrets spilled out to fester amongst us.” She glances behind her at the empty office. “It was too volatile amongst all of them out there. You were only here for the funeral, you didn’t see the days after. Oleg had to split up three fights before he put the hush order out.” She taps her fingernails along the desk again, the sound clacking in the office. “We’ve never really been taught how to grieve.”

Illya nods before he can help himself. He can still remember the funeral, standing there amongst the other people in black suits and watching Markos’ body be lowered into the ground. The sound of rifles firing into the air as the first lump of dirt had been thrown onto the coffin lid. The man next to him, one of the spetsnaz who had managed to make it back to Moscow in time and one of the few people who approached Illya when he arrived at the graveyard, had shuddered at the sound. Illya had pressed his fingertips to the back of his hand for a brief moment. It had been all he’d known how to do.

“So this leak?” Azra asks, jolting Illya from his own head. “Oleg is sure that it comes from within here?”

“How do you know about this?” Illya asks, pulling a file out from his desk drawer. “Oleg wouldn’t have told you.”

Azra smiles, and smooths down the edge of her hijab pointedly. “I’m well aware that I’m not Russian enough for him to trust,” she says wryly. “That’s why you’re here. But I am, by nature of my religion and the colour of my skin, an outsider in this building. It gives me a certain clarity in places.”

“Oleg only trusts me because I wasn’t involved in any of this,” Illya replies. He glances up from the file to see Azra staring sceptically back at him. “What?”

“Oleg brought you here for many reasons, as far as I can tell,” Azra says. She drums her fingernails on the table. “And one of them is because he still can’t let go of the idea that you, above anyone else, belong here. Even after everything, after defection and UNCLE and twelve whole years staying away from this country. I think that deep down, somewhere in his shrivelled black heart, there’s a corner that still sees that young agent, fresh out of spetsnaz training, that he took and turned into his best agent within three years.” She shrugs. “He’s getting sentimental in his old age.”

Illya stares at her. “I don’t think I’ve ever heard the words _Oleg_ and _sentimental_ in the same sentence,” he says eventually. “And I don’t even know what to make of that.”

Azra shrugs again. “You’ve got some time here to figure it out,” she just says. “And I’m an outsider here, remember? Spend far more time outside of this country than I do in it. It’s easier to avoid complete indoctrination when you spend most of your time outside this building.”

Illya arches a brow, and Azra stares back at him. “All hail the unassailable might and power of the Motherland,” she says, her face deadpan. It lasts a second before Illya sees the twitch above her left eye that means she’s trying hard not to smile.

“Does Oleg have you hanging around for no reason, or are you actually working?” Illya asks. “Because I could use an extra hand, if I’m to get this done before anyone else gets hurt.”

“Who says I’m not your leak?” Azra asks with a dry smile. “I could have become disenfranchised with the oppression inherent in the system, after this long playing the game. I could have snapped and decided that none of this was worth my loyalty anymore.”

“And if you had, then I would have come back to find this place on fire,” Illya says wryly. “Or already burnt down to the ground.” He settles back in his chair. “Besides, you’re an outsider. You don’t have enough information to leak something valuable enough.”

At that, Azra lets out a sharp laugh. “I’ll help where I can,” she says, getting to her feet and adjusting her long skirt until it sits right again. “When I can. Don’t expect me to do all your work for you.”

They fall silent for a moment, Illya flicking through the file in his hands and pretending like he doesn’t know everything of importance contained within it already. “By the way,” Azra says after a few long moments. “You should know that Alexi is here.”

The sound of crinkling paper is audible beneath Illya’s fingers. He breathes out, sets the file down on the desk. Alexi’s laugh echoes in his ears.

“He’s being held in the Lubyanka prison here, whilst the higher ups decide what to do with him,” Azra tells him. “Just in case you want to see him at any point.”

Illya breathes out again. “Why would I want to do that?” he asks. He’s sees Azra’s expression. “Don’t answer that.”

“Fine, I’ll let you off this once,” Azra says. “I have to go terrorise some people now anyway. Can’t let your reputation usurp mine now that you’re back.”

Illya grunts. He doesn’t have anything to say to that.

Azra pauses abruptly at the door as she’s about to leave, hand curling around the door frame. “Be careful, Illya,” she says quietly. “This place, it grabs hold of you and never lets go. You managed to get away once. Make sure you can do it again.” She smiles slightly. “If only to stop your husband razing this place to the ground if you’re not on a plane back to London within a month.”

“Don’t pretend like you care either way, Azra,” Illya replies. He opens the laptop on his desk so he doesn’t have to watch her expression, just in case. When he looks up, he just catches the end of a twist of her lips, something he can’t quite make out just before the door swings shut behind her.

The rest of the agents filter in to work as Illya makes his way through the footage from the body-cameras of the agents on the ground. At the moment, nothing much is clear beyond that the mission was a colossal fuck-up on too many levels. The compound was far more prepared than intelligence had estimated, the insurgents all but waiting for them in places. Their extraction plan had been somewhat faulty to begin with, over-reliance on helicopters a serious problem when the enemy has access to ground-to-air missiles and a decent targeting system, but had only become worse when the main exit route was cut off. Tactical support had been placed too far out, based on what appeared to be shoddy intel but could just as well be the insurgents responding to leaked information, and the attempted extraction of the target within the compound itself had gone about as poorly as possible.

Illya resists the urge to sigh, and pulls out a pad of paper. Rewinding the lead agent’s footage to the beginning, he presses play and begins to take notes.

The office slowly becomes alive as agents trickle in. Illya watches from his office, studying them as they pass by his door one by one. The junior agents all seem to move as a herd, but he can already see the splinters within them, the fissures starting to be grown between them, splitting them up until they are at each other’s throats and clawing over each other’s bodies in a desperate attempt to grasp at the top and pull themselves up.

Illya can’t help but snort at that. Judging by how they move around the office, furtive glances towards the closed door of Oleg’s office, it will be a while until they realise that top they’re aiming for is nothing but a carefully manufactured illusion.

The background noise of the office slowly fills up his ears.

It’s too easy for it to slip into something else. The sound of typing fades out and then it becomes the click of rounds being slipped into a magazine, digging into his fingers as he pushes against the spring and leaving little red marks behind. The hum of the air conditioning, still exactly the same as it was nearly twenty years ago, becomes the whine of a plane engine as he sits and waits for it to land, pistol a familiar line pressing into his side under the jacket as uncertain civilians mill around like cattle. There’s the smell of cigarette smoke on the edge of the air, the feeling of a cigarette long since quit between his fingers and the taste of cordite on his lips.

He doesn’t realise he’s rolling his pen between his fingers until he brings the end of it to his lips. Illya’s lip curls involuntary. It’s been years since he’s even thought of smoking, ever since Gaby gave him hell for catching him chain-smoking his way through a pack in a couple of hours, back in Cairo after a clusterfuck of a mission. Napoleon had smirked at that, but had quit alongside him when Gaby had turned on him as well.

Illya cuts himself off. There’s no point dwelling on those sorts of things, the last cigarette he had shared with Napoleon before Gaby stole all their packs and burnt them on principle, the way the smoke had curled between them and clung to Napoleon for a brief moment, wreathing him in the sunlight until Illya could scarcely find breath.

He can still taste cigarette smoke on his tongue. His hand curls in a fist around his pen, the plastic cracking beneath it until he can feel the splinters digging into his palm.

There’s the sudden rush of things falling a little into place inside his head, something tumbling into place accompanied by the smell of cigarette smoke and the feeling of rounds slotting into a magazine beneath his fingertips. Illya grabs one of the folders from his desk, scrambling through it until he finds the page that is half-formed in his head, glaringly obvious now he knows where to look.

“Shit,” he breathes, scanning the page. That half-formed page in his head was right, the leap from that to another page in another folder right as well, jumping and grasping at barely-remembered information that slots into place alongside it, all the way to the very beginnings of a damning conclusion.

He scrapes the file off his desk and shoves his office door open. Agents glance up at him from their desks, but Illya doesn’t have time to dissect the warring mixture of derision outmatched by trepidation that flits across some faces. He heads for Oleg’s office, pushing the door open without a knock. Someone muffles a gasp on the edge of his hearing, but that is ignored as well.

Oleg looks up from his desk. “Time away from here has only worsened your manners,” he says, one eyebrow arching. “What is it?”

Decades and a lifetime ago, that look would have made some unpleasant combination of fear and anger roil his stomach. Now, Illya slaps the file down on the desk and shoves the door shut behind him. “We have a problem,” he says. “And it’s somewhere in this office.”

0-o-0-o-0

In the movies, the ones that she has long since given up on watching because they can never get it right, these sorts of important things only happen in the middle of the night. The London skyline would be illuminated over her shoulder in a blur of soft yellow, the perfect juxtaposition to the harsh light in her office that would only illuminate her face and not anything useful like the files on her desk. She would maybe have a glass of whiskey in her hand, or be rolling a pen between her fingers that artfully illuminates her secret desire for a cigarette.

Because real life is not a soap drama on the BBC, none of that occurs. Instead, Gaby picks up her phone as she picks at the salad on her desk. “Solo knows you talked to me,” she says as soon as the call goes through. “Be careful. He didn’t take it lightly.”

“I’ve noticed already,” Joanna replies, her voice dry. “He’s been avoiding me. And he knows the Institute’s hiding places much better than I do. It’s insulting.”

Despite the worry churning in her stomach and making her pick at a piece of lettuce instead of just putting the damn thing in her mouth and eating it, Gaby lets out the barest of laughs. “He’s always been good at squirreling himself away when he’s feeling threatened,” she says. “Even if he’s out in broad daylight, he hides himself away.”

The next breath of air sticks in her throat. “Keep an eye on him whilst he’s there,” she says. “As best as you can. He won’t take kindly to it, but I don’t think that is too important in the long run.”

“I’m worried about him,” Joanna says frankly. “That he’s let this get to him, and let it get to him this badly. I never would have suspected it from Solo, of all people. I would have thought he’d known better.”

“He did,” Gaby mutters. She pushes her hair back from her face and longs for the smell of engine oil and the feel of grease beneath her fingernails for the briefest of moments. “At least, I’m sure he used to when he was here. Things like this happened before, people from our various pasts have turned up before, but it’s never been like this. They’ve never…collapsed like this.”

“I was going to say,” Joanna replies. “Either the stories I’ve heard have been greatly exaggerated, which after knowing Solo for a couple of years I seriously doubt, or this is something else entirely.”

“God if I know,” Gaby groans. “I tried to talk to him last night.”

“If you’re calling me, then I guess it didn’t work,” Joanna comments.

“Not the worst argument we’ve ever had,” she murmurs. The honours for that go to that blazing row her and Napoleon had about two years after him and Illya came to UNCLE, after the two of them had gotten over the ridiculous sexual tension between them but weren’t yet in what any stable adult could call a committed relationship.

She wonders if it’s a strange thing to judge those by the stages of the relationship between the two of them, but she dismisses the thought just as quickly as it arrives. Nothing was normal back then. Nothing is ever normal now, either.

At this point, she doesn’t even remember what it was that had started the argument, beyond the exhaustion that had been dogging their trailing footsteps as they ran from terrorists and corrupt officials and any number of people who wanted them strung up and dead. Illya had been left behind out of necessity, in an undercover role that should have only taken two weeks but had stretched out to months, and Napoleon had been more alive than ever with paranoia and fear, poorly disguised beneath a torn-up suit. They’d used the precious few hours they had in a safehouse to scream themselves hoarse at each other, had known each other just well enough to know how to cut each other out at the knees until crippled, and then Napoleon had left.

He’d reappeared later, of course, but later had lasted for three weeks and two other countries. It had taken weeks more before they’d even talked to each other again.

Compared to that argument, last night had been easy enough. But then their lives have never offered up a worthwhile comparison to anything.

“I’m worried about him,” Joanna repeats after a long moment’s silence. “He’d been doing so much better, recently. I think he’d almost started believing in more than the life and death we used to deal with, and now…” She sighs, a crackle of static over the phone. “He was so fragile when he first came to us. To me. I’m worried he’s going to go right back to that.”

“I’m sure he won’t,” Gaby says, stabbing at a piece of lettuce with her fork. “He’s come a long way since then. Just make sure there’s some sort of support network around him whilst he’s at work. Get him going to conferences or something, if you can, give him something to do that gets him out of that empty house until Illya gets back.”

Joanna hums. “His work has been fine as usual so far, so it won’t seem unusual for me to maybe give him a little extra to do. If it keeps his mind off it, then maybe that will help.”

“It’s the best you can do right now,” Gaby tells her. “Now he knows we’re looking, he won’t let you get close again. I’ll try talking to him again in a few days, once he’s calmed down, but we’ll see how that goes. Just make sure he’s not alone too much at work. He can get inside his own damn head and twist everything around if he’s left alone for too long.”

“I’ll do my best,” Joanna replies. “And I’d better let you get back to your lunch, Director. I doubt you have the time to spare calling me.”

“No, but I’ll do it anyway,” Gaby says, popping a tomato in her mouth. “We need to try and fix this as best as we can, seeing as Illya isn’t here to do anything himself. Let me know how it goes with him.”

She hangs up, and half-heartedly glares at the limp salad before shoving it in her mouth and going back to work. She doesn’t have time to try and deal with Napoleon’s apparent crisis at the moment, not with work always piling up on her desk and new crises always cropping up even as the older ones get more and more complicated. Being the Director of UNCLE means devoting countless hours to putting out fires, and even more to preventing them from being set in the first place.

But she’ll deal with it anyway. She isn’t quite sure she understands it, understands why he’s this has seemingly torn them down after everything they’ve been through together, but she will take this and she will add it to the ever-growing pile of things that she will make better. It’s why she’s doing this damn job, after all.

She’s only ever wanted to make things better, make up for her bastard of a father who left her alone and then make right all the things she watched, growing up in the poor parts of a city still reeling from being cut in half and then stitched back together like just knocking down a wall could fix everything. Somehow it ended up propelling her all the way to this damn desk.

Though it really would be more cinematic if it was night.

0-o-0-o-0

He dreams of glittering ballrooms again, endless hallways where the walls are covered in paintings. He moves from Renaissance to Impressionism to Romanticism like pushing through silk, lost paintings and found paintings and ones he’s sure he gave back to the museums all blurring together in a riot of colours and brushstrokes. Oil paintings and frescos and small pastels, the smell of rabbit skin glue when a canvas is released from the frame lingering as he walks.

There are lockpicks in an inside pocket, and blueprints stored safely in his head. When he wakes, alone in his bed, he can still feel the soft stretch of leather over his hands.

The days pass by in that hazy blur that always overtakes everything when routine becomes monotony. He gets up and goes to the Institute, talks at tired students about art history until they’re about to fall asleep, marks paper after paper until red ink stains everything he touches and then drives home long after the sun has set. He survives on coffee and sandwiches that his colleagues press into his hands until he goes home and pulls fish fingers out of the freezer or pasta from the cupboard, and then turns to the whiskey bottle left out on the counter.

The recycling bin clinks when he takes it out, and he doesn’t think he’s imagining the reproachful glares of his neighbours as he throws another bottle in there the next evening.

The article that has been mocking him these past few weeks has progressed to full taunting by now. The cursor blinks at him accusingly, and even changing the page background to green to blue and back to green again does nothing to help. If only he could get this chapter done. If only he could actually finish this article and submit it, get it out of the way. He’d made some progress in the past few weeks, when he’d been staying late at the Institute, burying himself in his work, but now there’s nothing.

If only he was actually any good at his job and at pretending to be a civilian like this, then maybe this spiralling guilt and shame slowly clawing him from the inside out wouldn’t be tearing his throat to pieces right now. But then if he’d ever actually been good at any of this, he wouldn’t be in this position at all. Illya wouldn’t have all but fled to Moscow.

He wouldn’t have gotten someone killed. He wouldn’t have driven someone else to madness in their grief, though madness is a wholly inadequate word for what had sent Alexi after them.

He wouldn’t have caused a lot of things to happen that can never be undone now.

The cursor blinks accusingly at him once again, and Napoleon resists the urge to delete the meagre paragraphs he’s managed to get out today. It may not be too well-written, but it’s better than nothing. At least his lectures are planned and the next batch of essays are marked.

There’s a knock at his office door. “Come in,” Napoleon calls, giving into the urge to shut the word document.

He’s expecting one of the PhD students, or maybe an undergrad looking for some advice on the next essay. He’s definitely not expecting Joanna to slip inside his office and shut the door behind her.

Napoleon sets his pen down. “To what do I owe the pleasure?” he asks coldly.

Joanna smiles slightly. There’s maybe a tinge of something else to it, something that’s been there ever since salt water turned his lips numb as he screamed at Gaby, standing in his kitchen, but he can’t quite make out what it is. “There’s a conference at the beginning of February in Paris,” she says, forgoing pleasantries. “They’ve asked for a representative from here to sit on a few panels. I thought I’d nominate you to go.”

She pauses, and Napoleon arches a brow. “The titles haven’t been released for the panels yet, but there’ll be a modernism one, and another on the use of art in modern revolution, according to the inside knowledge I have. They’re putting together an anthology as well, based on the panels, the sort of thing to try and reach a wider audience. They’ve asked for an essay or two from the panellists, something more easily accessible to a general audience. You’ve always been good at writing that sort of thing.”

“I have?” Napoleon asks. He stares at her, trying to see whether she’s going to let on that this is a joke, but he can’t read her face well enough to tell.

“The article you wrote for Life and Arts was well-received,” Joanna says. “And you’ve always loved Paris. The conference isn’t until after Christmas, I’m sure Illya will be back by then and you can make a holiday of it.”

“Right,” Napoleon says. His voice echoes in his ears.

“Paris in winter is always lovely,” she adds. It sounds like she’s trying to make conversation, but that can’t be right. Napoleon has barely talked to her since that evening, and he’s sure that Gaby turned right around and told her everything the next day. She can’t want to actually talk to him, or offer him whatever this is.

Maybe it’s pity, but then Joanna has never struck him as the type of person to needlessly dole out pity on unsuspecting targets.

“There might be some restoration work, or even some authenticity work, to consult on whilst you’re out there,” Joanna is saying. “I can have an ask around for you if you’d like, but you have much better contacts in that world than I do.”

“Sure,” Napoleon says. He stares at her, waiting for her smile to drop.

“Anyway,” Joanna says after a pause. Her voice sounds distant, muffled through the buzzing in Napoleon’s head that he can’t pin down. “I’ll email you the requirements for the anthology essays, and then if you get them to me by next month I’ll send them on to the organisers. You haven’t got too many exams to mark in January, have you?”

“Only the second year’s,” Napoleon finds himself saying automatically.

Joanna’s smile widens. “Perfect. I’ll let you get on with it, then.” She pauses in the doorway. “Good luck, Solo.”

The door swings shut behind her. Napoleon stares at it.

“_Fuck_,” he gets out. “Jesus _fucking_ Christ.”

She can’t just leave him alone. It’s not enough for her to gossip to Gaby behind his back, tell her everything he thought he said in private and probably add a few of her own thoughts alongside it, not enough for her to behave like a goddamn spy behind his back. No, now she has to pile this on top of him as well.

He knows full well that he’s not good enough to be nominated for that conference, especially not after the past few weeks. Hell, Joanna knows that just as well. So the only reason she wants to nominate him is to prove something to him.

Maybe it’s some sort of punishment for not even being able to do his damn job properly anymore. Maybe she’s trying to point out that he can’t do this, is watching and waiting for him to crash and burn so that she can swoop in. She might even think that she’s being helpful, by doing this.

Napoleon grits his teeth and resists the urge to lunge out of his chair and for his office door. He wants to race after her. He wants to grab her and shake her until that smile drops from her face and he can see just how much she really loathes him, hear her say how she’s just waiting for him to crack and break, just waiting for him to show everyone what a failure he is at all this. And even if she does think she is being helpful, even if she’s convinced that getting him to see how he can’t do this job is going to help him sort out his life somehow, like it’s something that can all be fixed with a dedicated afternoon and a neat little organisational system like the ones they sell in Ikea, all hard plastic and garish colours…

Alexi’s screams echo in his head. Another person who is as good as dead because of him.

Even if Joanna thinks she is helping, he doesn’t deserve it anyway. Not when he’s just been playacting at this safe little life. The one he thought he’d managed to carve out from the mess of blood and bone and aching, empty regret that has always dogged his footsteps.

He’s not even quite sure why he’s still pretending. Maybe it’s just because he doesn’t know what else he can do. He may not deserve any of this life, but he doesn’t know where he would go if he just got up and left.

He used to be able to flit between countries with nothing more than a smile and a set of lockpicks sitting snugly in an inner pocket. Now, he can’t even bring himself to walk out of a building.

He doesn’t know how long he sits there. His thoughts became little more than a nauseating blur a while ago, Alexi lingering in their bloodied trails.

His laptop chimes, the sickeningly cheerful alert of an email. It’s enough to jolt Napoleon out of his own head and nearly out of his desk chair at the same time. When he drags himself back into his chair and looks over to his laptop, it’s just in time to see an email from Joanna before the pop-up fades.

_From: J.A.Gould@cortauld.ac.uk  
Anthology Requirements (Paris, Feb)_

_See attached! They’d like a representative from here to speak on two panels at least, so let me know your final choices by the end of the month and I’ll send it on along with the anthology essays._

“Screw you,” Napoleon mutters, poking viciously at his keyboard until the email disappears. The small rush of satisfaction that gives him lasts for only a few seconds before it disappears, and that gnawing guilt flows steadily back into the place it left behind.

His laptop chimes again. A reminder that an undergraduate lecture is about to start flashes up on his screen, the calendar colour scheme obnoxiously bright as it reminds him he has to talk about modernism for an hour in a few minutes.

Napoleon’s fingers twitch. He can’t reach for the lockpicks or the bottle; neither of them are in his office. Instead, he grabs his bag, stuffs his laptop in it and slams the door shut behind him.

The lecture passes in a blur. Vacant faces of undergrads stare back at him as he talks and paces at the front of the hall and talks some more. The words spill out of him without him thinking. He’s fairly sure that they’re all correct. Even if they aren’t, the undergrads aren’t going to notice anyway. None of them are on their phones, they’ve learnt the hard way that he will call out anyone he sees looking down at their phones, but he doesn’t think he’s imagining their vacant gazes trained obediently on the screen behind him.

He thinks he manages to tell them about the essay that they’re meant to be writing. He’s fairly sure that he also includes a note about moving the next workshop he’s running, where they can come to him for help on essays and research. He’s almost certain he put that one in the presentation slides, so they must have seen it even if he did forget.

There are students to talk to after the lecture, and then more that turn up to his office with questions and occasional complaints. Napoleon does his best to listen to the ones that are serious, and sends those students who are just coming to him because they can’t be bothered to do the research themselves back to the library. Then there is a workshop to run and postgrad students to talk to, lest they try and drown their sorrows in caffeine.

It’s hours before he is able to properly look at his laptop again. The library is quiet, now that most of the students have headed home. A few students are around him, but they’re mostly ones that he recognises, postgrads now adept at sneaking their coffees into the library without being caught.

It’s a constant war of attrition between desperate students and the library staff who only want to protect their books. During exam season, no holds are barred.

Napoleon settles himself in a quiet corner, one with a comfortable chair and good sightlines on all the nearby doorways and approaches. There’s only one student near him, slumped in front of their laptop with a stare that looks to be edging towards desperation. Napoleon briefly recognises him as that transfer student he’d seen in here before, and vaguely remembers thinking he should find out who that student’s tutor is and check in with him, given how often he’s here even later than Napoleon.

He turns back to his own laptop. There’s no point in him interfering, not when he can barely keep himself together enough to hold down a damn job on his own.

The raw end of the article greets him as he wakes his laptop up, and the cursor blinks accusingly. Napoleon resists the urge to bury his head in his hands, and forces his fingers to type.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to all the amazing people reading, leaving kudos, and especially the people who leave comments, those really do make my entire day. Please leave a comment if you want to speculate about what's to come, berate me for the angst or just say hi!


	8. Yuvchenko

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, I'm sorry it's been longer than usual since an update- real life has been hectic at university and I just kept forgetting when I got home each evening. But I'm here now! Have a longer chapter to make up for it.

“Take me through what you have.”

Illya checks the door behind him is shut, and spreads his files out across Oleg’s desk. “On the surface, it starts here,” he says, handing over a printed report from an agent on the ground, dated to three weeks ago. “Increased activity was noticed in the city outskirts, where we know one of the cells was based. It was classed as slightly unusual, but nothing to warrant calling off the capture mission.”

“Yes, we knew about this,” Oleg mutters to himself. “We couldn’t find any corroborating data to suggest that this was a concern for the mission, and it was assumed to be unrelated.”

Illya grimaces at that. “I dug into phone records for the area, for known terrorists and affiliates. At first there was nothing, but then,” and he pulls out another sheet of paper, “I noticed a pattern here.”

Oleg scans the page, a frown on his face. “Nothing immediately worrying,” he says cautiously.

“Until you look at the organisations working in the area,” Illya says. There’s a map somewhere in amongst all these files and he digs through until he finds it, blurred satellite imagery, highlighted to show important locations. “There are a number of non-profits in the area, mostly focusing on keeping civilians out of the line of fire of gang warfare and the terrorist cells. We’ve never had any interaction with them.”

“Idiots, the lot of them,” Oleg says. “Sticking their noses in where they don’t belong. It’s not a humanitarian effort or a crusade for the morally righteous, it’s a damn war. They just get in the way.”

Illya tries not to let anything show on his expression. It takes him a few seconds, gaze fixed on the papers strewn across the desk in front of them. “The data shows increased activity surrounding one of the non-profits.”

“So?” Oleg interrupts. “There was increased activity for weeks before the mission, we know this already.”

Illya shakes his head and meets Oleg’s gaze. “This was before everything else. Over a week before. Nobody picked it up because once the uptick in activity around the cell had been called in, the timeline was closed off and nobody looked further back.”

Illya flips over a few more pages. “It was difficult, and I had to call in a favour or two in the area, but I eventually managed to trace it back to this.” He pulled out another sheet of paper, a red cross emblazoned at the top. “An aid worker was hospitalised a day after the first uptick in activity. She had been tortured. And when I looked into it, there were strong suggestions she had been taken in that area, and by this terrorist cell.”

Oleg breathes out. He stares at the spread of paper in front of him, eyes jumping from page to page as Illya watches him make the connections himself. “You think the information came from them?” he asks.

Illya nods, a grimace twisting his lips. “I think they knew something. Which suggests that either they got the information first, which is unlikely, or that the information was spread easily, meaning that it went through multiple channels or to someone with easy access to the information network in this area.”

“Wonderful,” Oleg growls. “Any progress on tracing it any further back?”

Illya hesitates. He has a half-formed idea or two, but he can’t help the brief fear that leaps up and makes a grab for his throat at the thought of trying to explain them to Oleg. He’s spent too many years sat on the other side of the table, having any ideas torn to shreds and shouted down for him to offer Oleg or anyone higher up anything less than a fully formed plan with contingencies.

“Nothing much else yet,” he tells Oleg. “I’ll keep working on it. I need to go back and look through the mission reports more, watch the footage and work out exactly what it is that the terrorists knew and when they knew it. It may take some time.”

“Make it take less time,” Oleg growls. “Every day that this leak is out there is a day where my agents are grounded and we cannot further the Russian goal, and we cannot do the work that this country requires to be done.” He shoves the papers back together in a haphazard pile, the paper crumpling under his fists. “We must see this fixed, Kuryakin, or it will be all of our heads.”

Illya puts the files back together. “I’ll see it done,” he says quietly.

He hazards a glance at Oleg as he takes the rest of the papers off the desk. For a moment, a brief second as Oleg looks away, he looks exhausted. Illya tries to work out how old he is now. How long he’s been here running the lives of everyone around him, running them into the ground like Illya remembers.

Oleg looks up and catches his gaze. Something passes across his lined face, something too quick for Illya to catch, and then a scowl returns. It’s the one that makes the same fear try and leap up again and grab at Illya’s throat, though he bats it away without too much trouble. “Find me a mole that I can string up and crucify,” Oleg growls. “Get it done, Kuryakin. Your father might long be dead in that gulag, but I’m sure I can find something else to keep you working.”

Illya takes the barb as he’s meant to, and gets to his feet. “Understood,” he says shortly. He doesn’t look at Oleg again as he turns and leaves his office.

The other agents stare at him as he leaves. He can sense the restlessness slowly growing amongst them at being grounded for so long. No amount of practice runs in the city, like the ones that most of the young ones are out on right now, nor the endless data trawling and paperwork, can ever make up for the feeling of being out on a mission and right in the middle of everything that’s important. This building is starting to get to them, the weight of Lubyanka bearing down on them until they snap out at each other for lack of anything else to do.

There’s a reason that most SVR agents, especially the ones under Oleg’s control, spend most of their time out of this building. It’s not just because Oleg tends to send them out again as soon as they step over the doorstep and as long as they’re not bleeding to death. They turn up, report back to their handler, write out a mission report and try not to bleed on it, and then they turn around and get back on a plane. It’s what Illya always did.

He can feel the stares on his back prick down his spine as he makes his way to the coffee machine. Someone else is already there, and Illya tenses as he sees Gleb there, smacking the coffee machine on the side as it hisses and sputters.

“It’s out of milk,” he offers. “Hitting it isn’t going to produce any more.”

The look Gleb gives him over his shoulder is pure venom, but Illya spent over a decade slowly building up an immunity to all kinds of looks, and venom is nothing compared to that look from Gaby that lets him know exactly how disappointed she is in him. He shoulders Gleb out of the way to get at the small fridge. “If you’re not going to top it up, then I will,” he says. “Otherwise nobody will get any coffee.”

There’s a not too gentle shove as he pulls open the fridge and reaches for the milk, but Illya had been expecting it and doesn’t give an inch. “Do you want coffee or not?” he says over his shoulder as he straightens up. “If not, then go do your job instead of hounding me.”

Gleb’s face twists in a snarl. “You come back here, acting like you own the place,” he spits at him. “Some of us are loyal to our country. Some of us didn’t abandon everything and flee to the west like a _coward_.” He makes an aborted movement towards him, like he’s about to hit him, and Illya waits for him to sway back away from him again. He knows he wouldn’t dare try it, not with Oleg right there in his office. Not when Illya is pretty sure the stories of him snapping a man’s neck without a second thought have started circulating now he’s back in Lubyanka.

“Do you want coffee?” Illya asks again. “If not, get out of the way. And if you’re going to stand and glare and spit at me about loyalty, do it somewhere else where you’re not standing in front of the coffee machine.”

Gleb snarls at him again. Illya ignores it and makes himself a cup of coffee. He’s a bully, and Illya has had far too much experience with those types of people. It doesn’t bother him like it used to, back when he stalked these halls with trembling hands and threats constantly hanging over his head.

He watches over the rim of his mug, one that he stole out of the cupboard and nobody has asked back for yet, as Gleb stalks away. A junior agent- Zia, he thinks her name is- gets up and hurries after him. He must have taken her as his protégé, though Illya isn’t quite sure why. Gleb had always been the worst bully when Illya had been here the first time, reprimanded more than a few times for being too violent during missions, especially towards women, but the higher ups had always ignored it as long as they had the results they wanted.

He had hated Illya as soon as they had met. Even without the past that Illya had dragged behind him the first day he stepped into the Kremlin, Illya is pretty sure that Gleb would have hated him anyway. He had always been that type.

He hadn’t come up through the spetsnaz like Illya had, or Alexi or Markos. He’d come from somewhere else, a town towards Ukraine where the old Soviet borders still exist on the maps in people’s minds. And whilst Illya had always been an outsider in the SVR in the way that eyes followed him wherever he went and whispers trailed behind him of his father, he’d at least been at home in Moscow, had the backing of the spetsnaz and the few people there who hadn’t cared about his father’s name.

Illya leaves his office door open and watches the other agents as they pace around the office, mug of coffee slowly growing cold at his elbow. Gleb has disappeared with Zia rushing after him, probably down to one of the training rooms in the basement that perpetually smell of damp. More of the junior agents are out in the city, practicing losing a tail and following one through the cold streets of Moscow, but there are still some in the office. Illya studies them, wishing not for the first time that he could read people like Napoleon has always been so good at.

One of them was involved. He’s not sure of it, and he won’t breathe a word to Oleg until he is, but Napoleon has always said he’d had the best instincts out of the three of them. On this, Illya is inclined to trust them.

He watches as Dmitri, left behind at the office, shuffles through files on a desk. Every movement of his is tightly controlled, a staccato beat of frustration that is evident even to Illya. It seems like a wonder that he’s still in the office. He should be down in the training rooms with a sparring partner, or at least a punching bag, but Illya has noticed that the other agents tend to avoid him.

A barely-formed thought begins to coalesce in his head. Illya considers it, picking it apart and trying to fit what evidence he has into the gaps.

Maybe. But he needs more time.

Oleg storms out of his office an hour later. “Kuryakin,” he snaps. “With me.”

“Any particular reason?” Illya asks as he gets to his feet and picks up his laptop.

“Strategy meeting with Commander Sokolov,” Oleg snaps. “Upstairs. Now.”

Illya follows in his footsteps. At the last moment he pauses and turns back towards the desks. Dmitri is sat there. Illya can see the tension lining his shoulders, the brittle anger flicking through him.

Two agents have died, he remembers again. Two agents that used to stagger in here at the end of missions with the rest of them, tracking mud across the carpet and occasionally bleeding on it. Two who were here alongside the rest of the agents still stalking this office.

“Yuvchenko,” he calls out. Dmitri’s head snaps up, the wild-eyed look being tempered almost quick enough for Illya to miss it. “Dmitri,” Illya calls again.

He beckons for him. It seems to take Dmitri a moment to get himself moving, stumbling out of his chair like he thinks he’s going to be banished back to it any second. “Sir?” he asks, almost snapping to attention before seeming to remember better. His eyes skip behind Illya for a second, and he pulls himself up even straighter.

“Strategy meeting,” Illya says. “Come on.”

Oleg gives him a look, but Illya ignores it in favour of shepherding Dmitri along until he seems to remember how to walk properly. They thread their way through Lubyanka, people almost jumping out of the way as soon as they see Oleg stalking through the halls. More than a few whispers start as they pass, spreading out in ripples that seep into the walls.

Illya lets them go without more than a glare or two at the louder ones. He catches Dmitri’s gaze as he looks back. “Keep your head down,” he tells Dmitri quietly. “Listen for what people are saying, and what they’re not. It’s good experience.”

“Sir,” Dmitri says. His eyes are just a shade too wide as he glances up at Illya, and it sends a slight shiver down Illya’s spine.

Oleg leads them to one of the large conference rooms, dark polished wood and gleaming metal meant to intimidate and remind everyone of the might around them in Lubyanka. It’s offset slightly by the red curtains that have seen better days, the coffee stain in the carpet that nobody has replaced and the projector that Illya is almost certain is the same one that was hanging crooked from the ceiling when he’d last stepped into this room, over a decade ago.

Nobody had ever managed to reach a consensus about who was the one to knock it off kilter. Amongst those who had actually been in the room at the time, it had resulted in multiple arguments and two brawls that nearly got them banned from a bar. Outside of the group, they hadn’t breathed a word of who might be responsible to anyone.

“Kuryakin! It has been a while since you deigned to grace our halls.”

Commander Sokolov is smaller than Illya remembers, but there’s still that smile curling his lips, the easy set to his shoulders that says he has the rank to overrule almost anyone else in this building and he is well aware of it. There’s the pattern of a burn scar just visible above his collarbone that wasn’t there before, which surprises Illya for a moment. He hadn’t known that Sokolov stepped outside of Lubyanka anymore.

“I’m here for now,” Illya replies evenly. “I believe there is a strategy meeting to get to?”

Sokolov grins a little. He glances past Illya to Dmitri behind him. “You look familiar,” he says. “One of Oleg’s puppies?”

“Dmitri Yuvchenko,” Oleg replies with a long-suffering sigh, evidently considering all of this a complete waste of time. “One of the junior agents.”

Sokolov frown. “Yuvchenko?” he asks, studying Dmitri intently. “Ah. I had heard that the nephew of our Minister had begun a promising career here. I didn’t know it was under Oleg’s tutelage.” He laughs, the sound grating at Illya’s ears. “Best place to keep an eye on you, I suppose. Can’t ever be too careful with the sons of wayward fathers. Isn’t that right, Kuryakin?”

Illya blinks, and breathes out. “Sir,” he says noncommittedly. He’s not sure he’d be able to keep his voice steady if he said anything else.

He risks a glance back at Dmitri behind him. He hasn’t quite mastered that blank expression in front of commanding officers yet. Illya supposes that it hadn’t been necessary much in the spetsnaz. They’d usually worn balaclavas, even when training. Easier to appear like you weren’t terrified when your face was hidden behind a ski mask.

“Well, I suppose the puppies all have to learn someday,” Sokolov says. “Take a seat at the side, Yuvchenko. No, it’s too weird to call you that with your uncle sometimes stalking these halls and being such a… bureaucrat. It’ll have to be Dmitri.” He gestures at the rest of the room behind him. “Go on in, Dmitri. I just want a word with Oleg and Kuryakin.”

Dmitri slips past them and further into the conference room. Sokolov turns his attention back to Illya and Oleg. “I know why you’re here, Kuryakin,” he says quietly. “But that doesn’t mean you can’t be useful elsewhere. Loosen the leash a little, Oleg, and I’ll see what I can set your attack dog to. You always did have such a good track record with the more…demanding missions, Kuryakin. I hope that hasn’t changed in the past few years. Haven’t gone soft over in London, have you?”

“Definitely not, Sir,” Illya replies. He can see some movement from Oleg out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn’t dare look away from Sokolov.

Sokolov hums. “Well, get Oleg’s mess cleaned up and then come to me. We’ll have a chat. In the meantime, let’s get in that room and see if we can’t come up with a comprehensive solution to our country’s weakened position in southern Syria.” He glances over to Oleg. “Ivakina wants to use this meeting to try and get us to agree to her strategy with Chinese intelligence and the situation developing in the southern Pacific. We need to make sure she stays on track. Our presence in East Asia is more secure than we currently are in the Middle East, and I don’t want to get distracted.”

“Not a problem,” Oleg says. “Come on, Kuryakin. Don’t dawdle by the door.”

Illya eyes the large table and the other officials sitting down. It’s always an act of political juggling, where to sit in a room like this, how to act during the meeting itself. Too close to Oleg, too quick to come to his defence during the meeting or to offer him anything, and everyone will assume that he’s back for good, Oleg’s attack dog once again. But if he stays too quiet, sits too far away, then he’ll be seen as uncooperative, and people will only be suspicious.

The people in this building tend to default to suspicion before anything else. It’s the weight of this place, the knowledge that it’s seen too many things that have seeped into its bones.

Illya takes the seat next to Oleg after a look from him. He sets his laptop down but doesn’t open it. It seems like a good compromise.

Nothing much has changed from the meetings he used to join over a decade ago, besides the precise content and objectives that are being batted about between the military personnel and the politicians. People are still fighting over minute details, eager to get a win for their side. There are still ever-changing alliances and hostilities that need to be kept track of. It was Yelkov, last time, who always used to derail the meetings to try and suit his agenda, his eyes lit up as he all but shouted across the table. Now it’s Ivakina who leans back in her chair and suggests something, a grimace curling her lips as Oleg cuts across her.

For the briefest of moments, Illya feels something akin to a stab of pity for her. She’s one of three women in a room of nineteen, and it must have taken everything she had to get all the way here, to a position where she has control over her own people.

Then again, Illya has heard about her, and about the reputation she has. It may have taken her everything she had, but judging by what he has heard about her, it also cost some others everything they had as well.

“So, we agree that the priority in this area is destabilisation of the Daesh terror cell operating here?” Sokolov asks. “What are our options?”

“Full scale airstrike,” someone suggests. “Risk of civilian casualties, though.”

“Never mind that,” someone else says. “Any civilians who haven’t gotten out yet are cannon fodder for the terrorists anyway. But it’s too high a risk that we don’t get all of the cell and will radicalise the surviving members further. In this area, they’ll know it was Russian control that authorised the strike, and the chance for retaliation on Russian soil is high.”

“What does domestic intelligence say?” Oleg asks.

“Don’t you already know, Oleg?” Ivakina asks sweetly. “I see your wayward agent has returned, and made it all the way to this table as well. Surely you have all the information you could possibly need.”

Illya lets her stare at him, and stares blankly back. He used to have Waverly look at him with that disappointed expression of his, back when controlling his anger was a haphazard thing rather than the easily controlled, slowly burning fire at the back of his head that it is now. Ivakina’s smile is nothing compared to that.

“My agents operate on foreign soil, as you well know,” Oleg is saying. “We wouldn’t presume to tell the FSB how to do their job, even if we may improve upon it.”

That comment prompts another round of arguments, and it’s another ten minutes before Sokolov reigns the room in and they turn back to the task at hand.

Illya endures five more comments about his presence here before something gives. “That won’t work,” he says abruptly, cutting into a conversation between Sokolov and another official. “You’re counting on a route out of the region from Talul al-Safa east towards the Iraqi border, but you’ll be moving too close to rebel-held territory. In case you’ve forgotten, they don’t like Russia’s support of the government regime.”

Someone scoffs. “Insolent pricks,” they say. “We should just support the government in rolling straight over the FSA.”

“And prolong their civil war by years,” someone mutters. “Putting thousands more civilians in danger.”

Everyone in the room falls silent. Illya twists in his chair to see Dmitri glaring defiantly from the chairs at the side of the room. “I’m not wrong,” he snaps. “And everyone here knows that any escalation from our part will only make the other countries involved in Syria work against us even more. Not to mention the civilian casualties that would come from such an effort. There are still a huge number of refugees fleeing…that area…”

He trails off as he sees the expressions of every single person in the room as they stare at him, ranging from shock to confusion to outright anger on Oleg’s face. Illya waits until Dmitri glances at him, and he shakes his head ever so slightly.

Dmitri’s eyes drop to his lap. “Apologies,” he mutters. To Illya’s ears, he doesn’t sound sorry at all.

“You were invited into this room,” Sokolov says. “You can be kicked right back out of it. This is a privilege, being able to be here. Don’t forget it like your father did.”

Dmitri keeps his head bowed, but Illya can see the way his hands twitch, nearly curling into fists before he flattens them out on his legs. “Sir,” he says tonelessly.

“Control your puppy, Oleg,” Sokolov says. Illya can see the barbed comment on Oleg’s lips, and can see the moment he chooses to swallow it back down. Sokolov looks around the table. “Let’s continue.”

They’re in there for another hour, fighting over foreign intelligence and objectives, what to do with the power vacuum that they might end up creating in the region. Illya offers suggestions where he can, but stays silent for most of it. He keeps an eye on Dmitri instead, watching him as he studies the rest of the room, cataloguing his reactions to what they’re all talking about.

The spetsnaz really should stop using the balaclavas whilst training. Dmitri’s face is still far too easy to read.

Oleg is silent as they leave, stalking down the corridors of Lubyanka back towards his corner of the building. Illya follows him, pulling Dmitri back a little. “That was foolish,” he hisses to him. “And risky. You do not want to have the people in that room think that you are reluctant to do the work. You should have kept your head down and your mouth shut.”

“I wasn’t wrong,” Dmitri hisses back. “You must know that. They were talking about just disregarding thousands of civilians, and-”

“You were a soldier, and now you are a spy,” Illya says, cutting across him. “You know what that means. Whatever you think of the current politics of this country, you chose to serve this country, and to serve the people who make those types of decisions. As long as you are here, your own politics are immaterial.”

Dmitri’s face screws up. “It’s not-”

“Right?” Illya asks. He glances ahead briefly to Oleg, but he doesn’t appear to be listening to them. Nevertheless, he pulls Dmitri in closer and lowers his voice. “It doesn’t matter. Not if you want to keep your head above water here.”

Dmitri snorts. “Keep my head on, more likely,” he mutters. “Oleg will have my hide for this.”

“Which you knew before saying anything,” Illya points out.

Dmitri just shakes his head, and quickens his step.

Predictably, Oleg rounds on them as soon as Illya shuts the door behind them. They haven’t even made it to Oleg’s office, still out amongst the desks where all the other agents can see them. As soon as the shouting starts, they don’t even pretend not to listen in.

Illya weathers it like he always used to. Oleg takes his temper out on Dmitri mostly, only glancing over at Illya a few times, like he’s unsure whether to be angry at him for bringing Dmitri along in the first place, or bring him onto his side and use him to further humiliate Dmitri.

Illya keeps silent. He can’t step in and defend Dmitri, not when the boy made such an error and not when he needs Oleg on his side more than a junior agent. And still he finds himself nearly flinching alongside Dmitri, when Oleg’s barbs find their mark. If he shut his eyes, removed the slight tremor of age that he can hear now in Oleg’s voice, then it could be two decades ago. Oleg’s wording has barely even changed since he used to scream himself hoarse at Illya, the building listening as Illya was flayed open and then sent back out to do his job.

He’d weathered it. Dmitri will have to learn to weather it too.

By Illya’s occasional glances at the clock on the wall, Oleg’s temper only lasts five minutes this time. By the time it peters out, though, Dmitri’s face is already flushed, and his hands are trembling at his sides. He all but runs out of the room as soon as Oleg turns his back on him.

Azra leans up against the wall next to Illya. “Well, that was entertaining,” she murmurs. “Wish I’d been there to see him speak out in the meeting itself.”

“It’s only entertaining to you because he never quite screamed at you like that,” Illya mutters as he pushes his office door open. “It was always something different with you.”

“Illya,” Azra says. She shuts the door behind them with a click, and then turns to face him. “I would take Oleg screaming at me a thousand times over the thinly veiled comments I get walking these halls.”

Illya stills. “Has Oleg ever…”

“No,” Azra says immediately. There is the beginning of a sympathetic smile on her face that makes Illya’s hands curl for a second, before he controls himself again. “For all his faults, and there are so many, he was never one of those types.” Her smile turns into a smirk. “Besides, he was far too concerned over his own protégé making waves wherever he sent him to spare a second for anyone else.”

Illya rolls his eyes, and just manages to restrain himself from muttering something about how he hadn’t been Oleg’s protégé. Even he knows that to not quite be true, and Azra would just laugh at him if he tried.

“But those comments,” he says instead, watching her face carefully for any reaction. “You really would take Oleg screaming over-”

“The wolf whistles?” Azra asks. “Cat calls, or snide remarks about the colour of my skin? People reaching out to tug on my hijab? I would take those screams over that any day.”

Illya suddenly feels any resentment towards her deflate abruptly, guilt tinging the edges of the space it left behind. “It’s that bad?” he asks quietly.

“Now?” Azra asks. “No. Not anymore. But it took three people in medical until they realised it was too risky to touch me.” She shakes her head. “Men. Just because it doesn’t affect you, or that you don’t act that way, it doesn’t mean that it never happens.”

Illya grits his teeth. “You should have-”

“We hated each other, back then,” Azra interjects, some of her usual grin returning to her face. “Whilst you might have done something, if I brought your attention to it, I would have loathed being indebted to you. And anything you did came with so much weight behind it. I didn’t want my name attached to yours in any way.”

Illya breathes out. He lets his hands uncurl from fists, and traces the grain of the wood on the desk behind him until he can’t feel the tremor running through them anymore. “Still,” he says. “It’s far too little and far too late, but I would have helped you. If I’d known.”

“You didn’t,” Azra replies. “Leave it, Illya. It’s all in the past.” She leans back against his office door. “Why are you interested in Yuvchenko?”

Illya shrugs. “Tell me about him,” he just says, leaning against his desk. “Dmitri. Sokolov said some offhand comment about wayward fathers?”

Azra laughs. “Ah, yes. He’s you. Or Oleg’s attempt to replicate you, I suppose.” She laughs again at Illya’s expression. “His father was Boris Yuvchenko. The one who opposed Putin back in 2004, and then was conveniently arrested for fraud. Dmitri was raised by his uncle after that, who was promoted extremely quickly after his father’s death.”

Illya nods. Those types of tactics have never been uncommon. Illya is old enough to just about remember the fall of the Soviet Union, how his father fell with it into disgrace. He’s definitely old enough to remember Yeltsin’s rise and the corruption that had followed him like a cloud, coalescing in the election that saw him re-elected and his opponents quietly removed from any position of power.

By the time he had joined the army and made his way into the spetsnaz, Putin had taken over, and the corruption had just taken on a new flavour. Most of the people around him had ignored it; political views were immaterial in the spetsnaz, where orders and missions were the only material things that mattered. It had stayed the same once Illya had entered the halls of this building. Most agents spent too much time outside the country to know, or care about, the details of Moscow politics.

It had never been quite as easy for Illya to ignore it. Not when Oleg had dangled the spectre of his father over his head too many times for him to count.

“I take it he’s here as leverage, then?” Illya asks. “Over his uncle?”

Azra hums. “Of a sort. He was pushed into the army because it was expected of him, I suppose. Maybe to keep an eye on his uncle through him, or to give some sort of leverage, but then it turned out that he was rather good at it. Spetsnaz for six years, and then he was pulled out and given to Oleg. Political leverage? Maybe. Oleg’s idea? Almost definitely.” She looks up at him. “He’d been searching for a way to replace you ever since you left.”

“He’ll have to search a bit harder,” Illya mutters. “Dmitri is scarcely a boy. And a foolish one, at that. Speaking up in the middle of Sokolov’s meeting was a stupid idea. Has nobody tried to teach him how to control himself?”

“Nobody has dared,” Azra just says. She glances out of Illya’s office door to the rest of the agents there, all turned back to their own work. “Too similar to you, I think, especially with the way Oleg treats him sometimes. Nobody wanted that responsibility. Or that risk.”

0-o-0-o-0

“The weather is turning,” Cassie says as she pulls her coat off and slings it over the back of the chair. Droplets run off the back of it and drip quietly onto the carpet, but nobody notices. “Winter is coming.”

“Stop,” Napoleon says, glancing up at her over his laptop. “I won’t have any Game of Thrones references in my office. The damn department is already overrun with speculation.”

Cassie answers him with a grin. She drops into the chair across from Napoleon, pulling multiple notepads out of her bag. “Crap, I forgot my pen again. Can I-”

Napoleon wordlessly pushes a pot of pens across to her.

“Oh nice, you’ve sprung for the next level up from shitty biros,” Cassie says. “I’m honoured.”

“I still have a pot of cheap ones for the undergrads,” Napoleon replies, a smile flitting across his face. “You only get the ones with the padded grips when you’ve got at least one degree under your belt.”

“Nice,” Cassie says. She flips open one of her notepads to a page filled with cramped handwriting and arrows floating aimlessly between paragraphs. “Right. Help me fix my life.”

They spend an hour working on her research and her thesis, until Napoleon sets down his pen with a sharp clack against the desk. “We’re just talking in circles,” he says, rubbing a hand over his face. “Sorry. I can’t think of a way out of this.”

Cassie stares at him for a few moments, just long enough to uncomfortably remind him of Gaby. “It’s no problem,” she says eventually. “I’ve got some time to wrangle this into shape.” She leans back in her chair, taking a sip from her water bottle. “How’s Illya doing?”

“Fine, I think,” Napoleon replies. “Busy.”

He’d spoken to him last night. Sat on the edge of the bed that was far too big and far too soft for him now, listening to the low murmur that only slips into Illya’s voice when he’s tired. He’d replied on autopilot, answering questions about the Institute and London with barely a pause, but with no recollection even seconds after of what he’d said. He had been concentrating too much on Illya’s voice, trying to tease out those few tells that can still be read over a phone and nearly a continent away to tell him something. Anything.

He might take even outright rejection at this point, though even thinking of it is enough to feel a portion of the terror and pain that would accompany hearing those words from Illya. He lies awake at night, most nights now, imagining how it might feel. Whether it could be more accurately described as a wound, the tearing of flesh from a bullet or a bayonet, both of which he somehow has experience with, or whether that isn’t enough, isn’t material enough to describe the way his body freezes and cracks with the mere thought of it.

Or whether he’s just being a complete pretentious arse trying to describe it in any way like that, even in his own head.

Maybe it’s just what he deserves. Maybe he shouldn’t complain. People are dead because of him, because of those godforsaken stories that he started. The ones that made Markos turn back towards a suicide mission and drove Alexi mad with grief. Maybe he should just shut up and let it happen. Let all of it happen.

Cassie coughs. Napoleon is jolted harshly from his own head, and looks up from where he’d been staring at indecipherable handwriting upside-down. “Sorry, what was that?” he asks.

He has no idea if she’d actually said anything, but it’s better to err on the side of caution. Cassie has always been reliably talkative.

“Just thinking about when I’m going back to Paris,” Cassie says as she twirls a pen between her fingers. “I was going to go in a couple of weeks, but it might be worth pushing it back a little.”

“Why would you need to do that?” Napoleon asks. “I thought you had enough of your thesis together at this point.”

Cassie hesitates. “Maybe?” she says. “But I’m really not sure. I’d like things to be a bit more concrete, otherwise I’m just going to spend hours wandering through the archives looking for the right thing. It’ll be better if I know what I’m looking for precisely before I go.”

Napoleon eyes her, suddenly feeling wary. “Do whatever you feel is right,” he says eventually. “But let them know in Paris as soon as you do. You don’t want to accidentally make someone pissed off at you.”

Cassie laughs. “Fair enough. But if I delay it then it’ll give me some time to try and straighten this mess out as well. Can we pencil in a couple more sessions to go over it? Once a week, maybe?”

Napoleon isn’t sure what to think. If he’s imagining the little catch in her voice, that quick glance away as she speaks, or if he’s right in what he’s thinking. His instincts are a jumbled mess, over-saturated in worry and guilt until even glancing at them feels like he’s straining his eyes.

He wants to tell her that she’s a terrible liar. He wants to ask whether Gaby and Joanna have roped her into their conspiracy, or whether she’s acting alone. He wants to know why the hell she thinks she should be worried about him when he can’t even do his damn job and help her with a thesis he should be able to write in his sleep.

He wants-

He wants a lot of things that he knows he can’t have. There’s no point wasting time on them anymore.

He pulls up his calendar and talks dates with Cassie, operating fully on muscle memory. He can’t help but watch her as they talk, trying to pull out tells and ticks that might clue him in to what she’s doing, what she’s thinking and what might be her motives. A second later he feels sick for having done that. She’s a student. She’s a kid who is studying the arts, not some goddamn mark that he’s been sent to manipulate and mould until they’re spilling all their secrets to him, over the inches and miles between them in a rumpled bed, or at the end of a pistol.

He vaguely thinks that he might be sick. Or that he should be sick. He’s not sure how to differentiate between the two.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, kudos and comments are much, much loved. I'm also over at theheirofashandfire on tumblr- the blog's a mess, I've been around that site too long to have any sort of coherent theme, but I'm fairly active and always happy to chat fic or meta!
> 
> Some people have realised in the comments already, but Dmitri is going to be important. Very important. If anyone can guess why, you'll get a gold star or something.


	9. Legally Blonde

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm distracting myself from the probable impending doom I'm going to wake up to tomorrow morning (it's election day here in the UK and it's scary) so here's another chapter. In good news, the thing coming for Napoleon is getting closer and closer, and is going to come up very soon. And the plot is starting to kick off for Illya next chapter as well, I'm really excited for some of the scenes coming up soon.
> 
> Warnings: mentions and brief, fairly vague discussions of alcohol abuse/alcoholism in the past. Feel free to ask me in the comments about it more before reading if you would like to.

Cassie firmly keeps the smile on her face as she shuts Solo’s office door behind her. “Have a good weekend,” she calls out as she leaves, and she makes damn sure that her voice doesn’t waver or the smile doesn’t slip from her face until she’s all the way down the hall and definitely out of range.

The smile is dropped unceremoniously as she digs her phone out of her back pocket and scrolls through her contacts. “Pick up,” she mutters under her breath as it rings. “Come on, pick up. Don’t be in another country doing something insane.”

There’s a click, and then a familiar voice. “Cassie, why are you calling?” Gaby asks. “Finally considering my job offer?”

“It’s Solo,” Cassie says. Normally she would play along with Gaby’s joke for a little while, at least offer some comment back, but she’s too unsettled right now to make any effort. “He’s not okay, Gaby.”

There’s a rush of static over the phone as Gaby sighs. Cassie turns at the end of the corridor, heading towards the courtyard. It’s mid-morning, and it’s winter. She’ll find somewhere there where she can hide herself in a corner and go behind her professor’s back to his friend.

“I’m aware of everything that has happened, and everything it has done to them,” Gaby says eventually. “More so than you probably are, Cassie, given that I doubt Solo would have told you what has happened.”

“He didn’t, but he didn’t have to,” Cassie says. She dumps her bag on a bench and sits next to it, curling her knees up and tucking her boots under the arm of the bench for purchase. “I just had a workshop session with him, and he was off for the whole thing. Talking in circles when normally he knows exactly what to say and how to get to the actual problem. Not even noticing when I was staring at him trying to work any of this shit out, when normally as soon as I look up at him it’s like he’s read my mind and knows exactly what I’m thinking. I’m pretty sure he all but dissociated in places.” She rubs a hand over her face. “I don’t really know, Gaby. I’m only an arts student, I don’t know what sort of things have gone on in his life. But I’m worried, so I thought you should know.”

Gaby sighs again. “Okay,” she says. “Okay, I can do something about this. Thanks for the information, Cassie. I can handle it from here.”

Cassie grips her phone a little tighter. “Uh, Gaby?” she asks. She tries not to let her voice waver, or pause, but Gaby’s voice is cool and professional and everything she isn’t, and even imagining her right now, in some high office somewhere looking out over London, wearing a suit sharp enough to cut someone to shreds, is making her heartbeat echo in her ears.

“Is there something else?” Gaby asks. It sounds like she’s already turning away from the phone. There’s the noise of someone speaking in the background, a keyboard clicking. Someone calls out, indistinct and muffled, and there’s an answering laugh.

Cassie grips her phone tighter, until it slips slightly in her sweaty hand. “Maybe stop with the spy agency director voice?” she gets out in a rush. “Sorry. I’m sure you’re very busy and have lots of important things to do. But Solo isn’t an agent.”

“Believe me, I’m very well aware of that,” Gaby says. “What are you saying, Cassie?”

Cassie breathes out sharply. “Look, I’m his student,” she says, her voice suddenly sharp without her permission. “As much as I like him, and admire him, I can’t properly be his friend. Especially not when you consider that I have no idea whatsoever about everything he’s been through and done. But from the little that I do know, you know about all of that.”

She thinks back to Solo’s expression as he had stared at his desk, the way his lip had curled slightly and he’d shaken his head at something she probably couldn’t even begin to understand. “He needs a friend,” she says. “And god, I know it’s not my place to say this at all, but Illya has been gone for weeks and he looks terrible, he looks worse every day and won’t say a single thing about it, and I think he just needs a friend.”

She takes a deep breath. Her hands feel a little numb, but she’s not sure if it’s the cold or the adrenaline that comes from almost telling off the director of an international intelligence agency, who she’s met about three times. “He just needs a friend,” she says quietly. “I’m not enough for that. None of the people here are. You’re…you’re the only person that I can think of.”

There is a long, drawn out silence over the phone. Cassie tells herself that hyperventilating is not the way to cope with this, and firmly gives her brain a shake to dislodge the gremlins creeping forwards. The chatter in the background fades away abruptly, a door clicking shut. “Cassie,” Gaby says eventually. “I appreciate that was probably not the easiest thing for you to say.”

Cassie snorts. She can’t help herself. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but you have this whole ‘badass avenging angel’ thing going on. You’re a little intimidating.”

Gaby huffs a laugh that suddenly sounds weary. “Thank you, I suppose. But you should never be- as much as I might hound you about recruitment, Cassie, I never- you should never be afraid of me.”

“There’s a big difference between being a little intimidated and being afraid,” Cassie says. “Also, I’ve seen that picture of you in that horrible Christmas jumper, the one that Solo and Illya have in their living room, where you look incredibly drunk. It’s hard to be afraid of someone when I can just think of that every time you get a little intimidating.”

Gaby groans. “I was very, _very_ drunk when that photo was taken. Illya has always thought it was hilarious.”

Cassie has only met Illya about twice, and for a brief moment she finds it hard to believe he finds anything hilarious. The most she can imagine for him is begrudging amusement tempered by sarcasm.

“Anyway,” Gaby says. “That took guts. And- it might have been something that I needed to hear. I’ll work out something to do to help.” She sighs, a rush of static over the phone. “I assume you don’t want Solo to know that you called me? He already is half convinced that there is some sort of conspiracy between myself and- well, that doesn’t matter to you. But I won’t say anything to him, for now.”

“I feel bad going behind his back,” Cassie admits. She switches her phone over into her other hand, wiping the sweat from her first hand that has gone ice cold in the wind. She sticks it in her pocket to try and get some feeling back into her fingers. “It feels like some sort of betrayal, or something.”

“I can’t say to know his state of mind exactly,” Gaby says slowly, “and it doesn’t feel great making decisions like this behind his back, but he’s…paranoid isn’t the right word, but it’s the best I can think of right now. For now, I won’t say anything to him about this chat.”

“Thank you,” Cassie says. “And for not eviscerating me for calling you about this.”

Gaby laughs. “I need to take you out for dinner at some point, Cassie,” she says. “Not for any recruitment purposes, don’t worry. I just think I should get to know the person who calls me up and then tells me off a little better. My treat. I have a lot of hazard pay that I never use.”

“In that case, I request the Ottolenghi restaurant in Spitalfields,” Cassie says. “His Instagram is incredible.”

Gaby laughs. “I can make that happen,” she replies. There’s the sound of a door opening and a muffled voice from her end, and Cassie can just about hear Gaby turn away from the phone and answer, though the words are indistinct and too hard to make out. “Sorry, Cassie, but I have to go,” Gaby says.

There’s an urgency running through her voice that wasn’t there before, so Cassie just nods. “I’ll let you know if anything changes,” she says. “Or if anything happens. I just want him to be okay.”

“So do I,” Gaby replies, and then the line goes dead. Cassie pulls her phone away from her ear to stare at it for a moment. She isn’t sure if Gaby had to hang up because she was busy trying to save the world, or because sometimes she just doesn’t have the best social skills.

She supposes that being an international spy and leading an agency may not leave much time to learn how to interact with an average person. From the little she’s heard, and the large amount she’s assumed or guessed about, she doesn’t think Gaby, or Napoleon and Illya when they were working with her, had much time to just interact with someone who wasn’t trying to either save the world or end it.

She heads back inside. There are friends camped out in one of the cafes in the Institute, all of them PhD students watching the freshers scurry past with benevolent expressions. “Running late with Solo again?” one of them asks as she slid into a seat at the table. “Damn, I wish I had him as a thesis supervisor.”

Another friend laughs. “I don’t know, it seems like it would be awfully distracting.”

“Oh, just because you’re still drooling over him ever since he first walked into that lecture hall,” Cassie says. “He’s still married.”

Her friends laugh, but the joke twinges a little when she thinks of Solo’s vacant expression, the worry in Gaby’s voice that she couldn’t quite hide, even over the phone. She wonders, as her friends move on to other topics and art talk, the only thing they ever really know, fills the air, where Illya is right now. What he’s doing, whether he’s gone back to the life that she’s sure he must have hated, by the end, and if he’s also sitting in an office and wishing he was somewhere else.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya’s voice cuts out from static for a moment, and Napoleon winces at the harsh noise, pulling the phone away from his ear. He brings it back just to catch the tail end of what Illya was saying.

“-some saying about old dogs and their bark,” he is saying. “Or bite? I can’t remember how you say it.”

“There’s a thousand variations on that,” Napoleon replies. “But he’s okay? Not being too much of a dick?”

“Nothing I haven’t seen a thousand times before,” Illya says. There’s a sigh, and then a rustle of what sounds like paper. Napoleon checks the clock. It’s three hours ahead in Moscow, which means it must be nearly midnight there.

He can almost see Illya right now. He’ll have gone to this sofa when it’s this late, instead of a desk, spreading the files out over the coffee table as he rearranges the evidence to his liking. There’ll probably be a mug of coffee, placed down on the floor by his feet where it won’t spill on the papers. He’ll have his phone jammed between his ear and shoulder as he builds his case out of dense reports and satellite images, a highlighter in one hand and a pen, always green or blue, in the other.

“How are the others?” Napoleon asks. “Anyone giving you grief?”

“Nothing I can’t handle easily,” Illya just says. “Nothing yet, at least. They are mostly still…wary.”

“That doesn’t sound good,” Napoleon hazards. Even over the phone he can hear the slight tone to Illya’s voice, the one that means he’s strategising over whatever is worrying him, picking at possible outcomes and options that other people might take, working out strategies and counter-strategies for different scenarios.

He can remember watching Illya do this, late at night in their office as Illya pored over the files on his desk, or huddled in some godforsaken safehouse. At those times, the files were all in his head, and Napoleon would watch as Illya sat and stared at nothing, sometimes for hours, sorting it in his head. Napoleon has always envied his ability to hold those things together like he had. Everyone had always assumed that any leap of logic on a mission came from Napoleon, but more than a few missions had been saved by Illya piecing together information that nobody else managed to work out.

“It’ll be fine,” Illya says. “At the moment, I have backing of Oleg, which means they can’t really touch me without worrying about him throwing a fit. Or something at their heads. And if they do something, I can respond how I like without Oleg giving grief.”

“You’re not like them, Peril,” Napoleon says softly.

“I know, Cowboy,” Illya mutters. He sounds distracted, and there’s more paper shuffling in the background. “How is Institute?”

“Yeah, fine,” Napoleon says. “Busy. It’s been long enough that the freshers have settled in and are actually starting to do some work, so that’s…that’s good.”

“That is good,” Illya murmurs. “Exams soon, yes?”

“Couple of months still,” Napoleon corrects. “After Christmas. And I’m not really involved with the freshers this year, so I don’t have many exams to worry about.”

“Right,” Illya murmurs. There’s another rustle of paper, but this time Napoleon is almost sure he can hear the yawn Illya is trying to hide. “Gives you more time for your research then.”

Napoleon knows it isn’t a barb. He _knows_ Illya has no idea of how Joanna is hounding him, or how he has barely written another page on that damn article that’s haunting his every step inside the Institute. From the sounds of it, Illya barely has enough time in his day to get his own work for Oleg done, let alone listen in to Napoleon’s problems from a whole continent away.

“Heard anything from Gaby lately?” he asks.

He just can’t help his own damn mouth sometimes.

“Nothing beyond few texts,” Illya says. “She seems busy, but she always does.”

Napoleon hums. “Yeah, I think she is,” he just says. He trails off. He wants to say more, for a second. He wants to confide in Illya like he always has, long since they first turned away from their own countries and somehow spiralled into each other instead.

He wants to ask him when he’s coming home.

He doesn’t think Illya would give him a straight answer if he did, though, so he keeps his mouth shut. On the phone, Illya stifles another yawn.

“You sound exhausted, Peril,” he says softly. “Go to sleep. It must be about midnight over there.”

“Close enough,” Illya murmurs. He sighs, and Napoleon can just picture the way he’s running a hand through his hair, or maybe rubbing at his eyes. He does that when he gets tired, press the heels of his hands into his eyes like he can see the answers imprinted there.

“I should sleep,” he says eventually. “I’ll call you when I next can, okay Cowboy?”

“Yeah, sounds good,” Napoleon says. “Love you, Peril.”

“Love you, Cowboy,” comes Illya’s reply, and then all Napoleon hears is the dial tone.

The bottle of scotch hasn’t left the counter for days, and his hand reaches for it easily. The glasses stay within their cupboard. He smashed another one of them a few days ago. No, maybe it was last week. He’d trodden a glass fragment into the sole of his foot, and it had hurt like a bitch until he’d pulled it out with a pair of tweezers he’d spent half an hour digging through the bathroom cupboards for.

It’s well past dusk outside when Napoleon reaches the bottom of the bottle. He sets it back on the kitchen table where he’s slumped and tries not to look at his laptop. It’s all he does in the evenings, bury himself in work and fail miserably at making any headway. The cursor has only become more accusing with each time he opens the document and stares at the tattered ends of that damn article.

_Blink._

You can’t even do your job properly.

_Blink._

You’re a fraud.

_Blink_.

People are dead because of your hubris.

_Blink._

Napoleon shoves his laptop to the other end of the table. It narrowly avoids falling off the edge and teeters there for a moment until settling. He makes a strategic retreat to the couch, but can’t find the energy to do anything once he’s there. There’s never anything on the TV, only failing comedies that believe the only way to be relevant is to make fun of every marginalised community they can think of and pass it off as ironic, or cop shows that don’t have the first clue about what it’s really like to get shot, let alone shoot someone else.

There’s a knock at the door.

Napoleon stays still. He could go up and look at the camera feed in the kitchen cupboards. He could go and look through the living room window, which he knows has good lines of sight on the front door and all of the street. He could just get up and open the door.

He stays still. There’s a long pause, and then another knock. This one sounds a little more like they’re trying to batter the door down.

“Solo?”

Napoleon uncurls a little from the couch.

“Solo, it’s Gaby.”

Somehow, he gets to his feet. The door seems a hell of a long way away, but a second later and he’s standing in front of it. The chain across the door rattles as Gaby knocks again. “Your neighbours will start to think something is going on,” she says on the other side. “Come on, Solo. I know you’re here.”

His hand is on the key. It shakes under his fingers.

“Darling,” Gaby says. “Let me in. Please.”

Before he knows it, he’s opening the door. Gaby is standing on the other side, a little rumpled, overcoat pulled haphazardly over a loose jumper that has singe marks up one side of it and a pair of jeans that have seen better days. She’s staring up at him, eyes wide, and for the briefest of moments she looks just like Napoleon remembers, standing on that balcony in Rome.

He pulls the open door back a little further. “Hello, darling.”

Gaby steps forwards. “Are you going to let me in?”

Napoleon wordlessly steps back. He busies himself with locking the door again, and then checking it twice, as Gaby pulls off her coat and throws it over one of the hooks on the wall. Napoleon glances over at it briefly, and then looks away just as quickly when his eyes catch on the empty hook where Illya’s greatcoat normally hangs.

Gaby turns to him just as he turns away, and Napoleon stumbles, his balance going as he nearly falls into her. Her gaze sharpens as she breathes in. “Oh,” she says softly. “Oh, Solo.”

This time, Napoleon does flinch. Yet he can’t help but stumble after her as she walks further into his house, his legs suddenly wobbling as she goes straight towards the kitchen and that empty scotch bottle sitting right there on the table. “Oh, Napoleon,” she says.

“Don’t look so pitying,” he mutters. “It was nearly empty anyway.”

It sounds weak even to his own ears. Gaby sets the bottle back down and turns to him.

“I won’t pretend that I’m not worried,” she says. “Especially not smelling the scotch on your breath right now. We’ve been here before, Napoleon. And we both know that it was hell the last time.”

“I’m fine,” Napoleon says automatically. Gaby doesn’t even try to suppress the wince that crosses her face.

“Solo,” she says softly. “Napoleon.” She steps forwards and reaches for one of his hands. Napoleon lets her take it, staring down at how his hand dwarfs her. She squeezes it. His wedding ring presses deep into his skin, and for a moment he finds a space to breathe.

“You and Illya are my closest friends,” Gaby says. “We spent years saving the world together, or fighting against the rest of it. We’ve been through hell together.” She gives the empty bottle still on the table a meaningful look. “You were right. I’m still in, and it means I can’t really know what it is you and Illya have gone through. But I am your friend. I will be here if you need me to be.”

Napoleon stares at her for a long moment. He can taste the scotch on his tongue, but for a brief few seconds the urge for another drink is overwhelmed by everything that is Gaby, standing right in front of him. “You always were terrible at the therapist speeches,” his mouth says. It doesn’t have permission from his brain, but that hardly seems to matter anymore.

Gaby smiles up at him, a sharp grin that is lost easily in the dark. “That’s why therapists still have paying jobs,” she says, just like she always used to say.

The ground steadies a little beneath Napoleon’s feet.

She tugs him over to the sofa, making him sit down and pulling the blanket draped over the back across him. It smells like the dog, and Illya, and Napoleon only lasts a few seconds before tugging it around him and breathing in. “I’m going to make us some tea,” Gaby says. “You sit here and sober up.”

The noise of Gaby in the kitchen, the kettle slowly boiling and her efforts as the lid of the sugar tin gets stuck yet again, slowly fills up Napoleon’s ears. The smell of the herbal tea that Gaby likes, the one they always keep stocked at the back of the cupboard for her, gradually diffuses out into the living room, and loosens the taste of scotch on his tongue.

“Here,” Gaby says, appearing in front of the sofa and handing him a mug. “Sweet as sin, just how you like it. Careful, it’s hot.”

She settles herself down at the other end of the sofa, picks up a book from the coffee table, and proceeds to completely ignore him in favour of the book and her tea. Napoleon stares at her for a long moment. “Gaby-”

“Drink your tea,” she says, turning a page. “And sober up. We can talk later.”

Napoleon struggles to sit up without spilling his tea all over the blanket. His limbs feel like they’ve turned to lead and are weighing him down, pulling him down as he struggles for the surface, the taste of salt water on his lips. “No, Gaby-”

Gaby turns another page in the book. “Nope,” she says over the rim of her mug. “You’re drunk. You’re going to sit here and drink your tea and sober up. I will find a something on Netflix that has no guns or explosions and we will sit and watch it until you can walk in a straight line and are speaking at a normal volume.” She sips at her tea. “We aren’t having this conversation whilst you’re drunk. We both know it’s a bad idea. Drink your tea.”

Napoleon stares at her, mug halfway raised to his lips. “What in the ever-living hell did I manage to do to deserve you?”

Gaby finally looks over at him, something complicated crossing her face that Napoleon has no hope of catching. She sets her mug down, and then leans over and takes the mug from Napoleon’s unresisting hands as well. “Many, many things, darling,” she says softly. “Many impossible things, often before breakfast.” She pats the sofa next to her. “Come here.”

Napoleon lets Gaby pull him close on the sofa, unwrapping the blanket and wrap it around both of them. She retrieves both of their teas. “Grab the remote,” she tells him. “We’re watching Legally Blonde.”

Napoleon doesn’t resist. He falls asleep with tears still rolling down his cheeks, the sounds of Elle Woods tearing down the patriarchy and the warmth of Gaby curled up against his side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gotta love Cassie. Sometimes you need someone who's on the outside to help you see things a little clearer.


	10. Delphine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long one today, but I don't think any of you are going to mind after reading this. Plot is really starting to kick in.

The punching bag swings away from him. Illya readjusts his position, sinking his weight through his heels and letting his shoulders drop. The bag swings back, and Illya lets a right jab stop it in its place, followed quickly by a left jab and then a hook to send the bag off in another direction. A few beads of sweat trickle down between his shoulder blades, but he just takes a breath and adjusts his stance again.

There are people watching him. They’ve been glancing over from their own sides of the gym ever since he walked in with a towel slung over his shoulders. It’s nothing new. He always used to get people staring when he was down here before. Sometimes Oleg had liked to bring visiting officials or commanders down to watch Illya spar against other agents and beat them into the ground. They’d always stood high up in the corridors above, watching through the glass. Oleg didn’t tend to let him meet any of them.

Illya throws another few punches at the bag, and a couple of roundhouse kicks for good measure. The punching bag swings wildly, the chain creaking slightly at the top, and Illya grabs hold of it to steady it. His fingertips leave a thin sheen of sweat over the leather.

A door slams open at the other end of the gym. Illya looks up to see Dmitri storm in, sending a group of techs scattering at the sight of him. He might be a junior agent, and low down in the hierarchy of Oleg’s group of agents, but Oleg’s agents are still some of the top in the agency. Dmitri still outranks more than half the people in Lubyanka, and would inspire fear in a good many more.

Illya probably outranks nearly everybody but the commanders in this building, but that doesn’t matter particularly right now.

Dmitri stalks to another punching bag across the room and starts wrapping his wrists. Even from the other side of the gym, Illya can see that he’s being sloppy. Those wraps won’t give his wrists any support, and will just get in the way as soon as he starts sweating. He doesn’t even start to warm up properly, just throws himself against the punching bag and starts whaling on it like it contains the secrets to surviving in this job.

Illya has been there. There’s nothing in those bags but sand.

He lets Dmitri get it out of his system for about five minutes as he pretends to stretch, and then decides to intervene before the boy manages to hurt himself. It’s easy enough to get close to him without Dmitri noticing. He’s far too busy trying to punch a hole through the bag.

“You’re going to hurt yourself if you keep doing that.”

Dmitri jumps. It wouldn’t be noticeable to most people, but Illya sees the way his shoulders tense, how he slips into a stance for a second before making himself relax out of it. “Sir,” he says. “I didn’t know you were here.”

“I didn’t know you hadn’t listened to a single word the instructors said in the spetsnaz,” Illya replies. “Wrap up your wrists properly before you fall over the wrappings.”

Dmitri ducks his head, and starts to unwrap his wrists. Illya grabs his other hand and starts on the other one. “I thought you were meant to be out running exercises in Moscow with the others.”

“Zia and I had a disagreement,” Dmitri says, not looking up from the wrapping that he’s rerolling. “Oleg benched me for today.”

“A fight, you mean,” Illya says. He catches Dmitri’s eye. “I know how Oleg works. You came storming in here like you couldn’t wait another second to throw a punch. I don’t need to tell you that thinking like that can be dangerous. It’s far too easy to hurt yourself like that.”

Dmitri takes the other wrapping that Illya hands over, and starts to wrap his wrists up again- properly this time, Illya is pleased to notice. “You used to fight with Oleg too?” he asks quietly.

“Fighting _with_ is a bit of an overstatement,” Illya says as he rewraps his own wrists. “Normally he would just scream at me until he got tired of it.”

Dmitri huffs a tired laugh. “Sounds familiar,” he mutters. “Suppose every agency is like this.”

_It isn’t_, Illya finds himself wanting to say. He swallows the words, and focuses on tying off his own wraps. “You’ll get your anger out better with a sparring partner,” he says, walking into the centre of the room. Dmitri follows him, and drops into a stance when he sees Illya do the same. Illya rolls his shoulders, and lets decades of training and experience rise up a little from where he’d stuffed it down deep.

Dmitri comes at him with a wild swing, a roundhouse punch that would knock someone out if it hit. Illya doesn’t let it come near him. He ducks underneath, hands up, and wraps one arm around Dmitri’s neck. “Do better than that,” he hisses in Dmitri’s ear.

Dmitri barely gives Illya time to react. He grabs at Illya’s shoulder with one hand and drops to one knee, driving his elbow into Illya’s midriff. The momentum pulls Illya over Dmitri’s shoulder.

A normal person would hit the floor and not get up. Illya twists mid-air, landing on his side and rolling away. His shoulder twinges as he wrenches it out of Dmitri’s grip, but he’s on his feet as Dmitri rushes forwards and swings at him again. It’s an easy move, too easy for someone who went through the same training as Illya did. Illya grabs Dmitri’s shoulder and uses all the momentum he threw behind his punch to throw him into the ground.

Dmitri doesn’t land as gratefully, and is gasping for air as he rolls to his feet. He launches himself at Illya with a series of rapid-fire jabs and hooks that Illya dodges and blocks, the ferocity driving him back. Illya keeps blocking them off, diverting them out of the way so he only feels a fraction of the blows. If he was feeling the full power that Dmitri is throwing behind them, he’s pretty sure he’d be on the floor.

Dmitri swings at him again. He’s not an idiot, and he hasn’t been trained by idiots; he knows how to throw a punch. But he isn’t thinking of anything he’s been taught right now. He’s seeing a target, and throwing himself at it.

Illya knows well enough how badly that can end.

He lets Dmitri drive him back for a few more steps before pushing back. He lands a hit to Dmitri’s side, another to his kidneys as he slips past a punch and behind him. Dmitri is on the back foot now, eyes widening as Illya pushes him back and back. A kick to the back of his knee makes Dmitri stumble, and he comes up swinging. Illya blocks it easily, though the blow makes his arms ache and he knows it’s going to bruise tomorrow.

Dmitri launches himself at Illya again, teeth bared in a snarl as he throws a heavy roundhouse right at Illya’s temple. Illya turns with it, grabbing Dmitri’s shoulder and twisting as he drops low. The momentum behind Dmitri’s punch sends him straight over Illya’s shoulder, and Illya drops his weight and uses his leg to flip Dmitri straight into the ground. He follows him down.

Dmitri snarls, twisting violently beneath Illya as he pins him to the floor. He goes for Illya’s face, just barely scratching his cheek as Illya twists out of the way.

“Dmitri!” he snaps.

Dmitri doesn’t hear him. He tries to flip Illya over, tangling their legs to try and get some leverage. Illya switches his position, keeping his weight over Dmitri’s torso as he grabs one of Dmitri’s arms. Pressure in the right place, at the right angle, and Dmitri is reduced to snarling at the mats as Illya holds him in place.

“Dmitri!” Illya barks again.

Dmitri snarls, blindly reaching out for any leverage he could get against Illya. He twists again, and Illya can hear the note of pain that leeches into his breath as his shoulder is twisted and trapped by Illya’s weight.

“Dmitri, stop it,” Illya snaps. He leans his weight heavily across Dmitri, letting up on his shoulder before Dmitri, in his blind anger, manages to break something. “Calm down. Calm yourself down. You’re going to hurt yourself.”

It takes minutes for Dmitri to stop struggling as Illya talks him down. He presses his head against the mats and gasps for breath through clenched teeth. Illya slowly lets him go, and sits back when he can see that Dmitri isn’t going to do anything else.

“What the hell was that?”

Dmitri rolls over onto his back. “What?” he bites out between breaths.

“You know better than that,” Illya says. “I _know_ that you’ve been trained better than that.”

Dmitri is silent, staring up at the ceiling. Illya lets out a heavy breath and sits more comfortably on the mats. “You could have broken your shoulder,” he says. “You should have recognised the hold that I had you in, and known that struggling would eventually snap your shoulder blade in half. And you shouldn’t have been punching like that.”

“I was punching how I normally punch,” Dmitri snaps. Illya watches as exhaustion wars with anger, and something else that he can’t quite place, in the frame of his body. For the moment, it appears that anger is holding on by an inch.

“If you’re taking someone down, then hit like that,” Illya replies. “I don’t care what happens to them. But we are sparring. _Training_. You should know how to pull your punches so that you don’t get your opponent hurt.”

“Last time I pulled any punches, Gleb beat me into the dirt and nearly broke my jaw,” Dmitri mutters, anger slowly leeching from him. He seems to realise what he’d said a second later, and tries to shrink into the mats.

“Gleb is a damn bully, and I’m pretty sure he’s a psychopath,” Illya mutters under his breath. He pushes himself to his feet and wipes the sweat away from his face. “You’ll train with me now,” he says. “And we’ll do it properly.”

He offers Dmitri a hand. Dmitri, after a long moment, takes it and pulls himself up to his feet.

They start again. Dmitri keeps himself contained for a few minutes, during which Illya has a hard time countering all of his strikes in time for the next one. But then he manages to land a soft hit to Dmitri’s ribs, and Dmitri swings wildly in retaliation. He comes at Illya with another wide swing to his temple.

For a moment, Illya can see the sequence unfolding before him. He’d step inside the punch and strike up, using the blade of his hand to land a strike against Dmitri’s neck. It would be enough to disorient him, and give him time to land another, more incapacitating strike, or to get him on the ground.

He goes to step inside, and then pauses instead. Dmitri’s fist heads straight for him and he doesn’t do anything but turn and roll with the blow. Even so, Illya’s head rings as he falls to the mats, rolling through the impact and away from Dmitri. His teeth clack together, and he tastes blood as he catches his tongue.

The room falls silent.

“This is what I meant about pulling punches,” Illya says thickly as he hauls himself to his feet, pressing one hand to the side of his head. “That could have been a lot…worse…”

He trails off as he turns to Dmitri. The boy is standing there, eyes wide. A tremble runs through his hands and up his frame, and Illya watches him clench his jaw to try and halt it there. He takes a half step back, before seeming to remember himself and holding himself in place.

Illya works his jaw, feeling the ache settling in across the side of his face. “Don’t worry, I’ve had much worse,” he says.

Dmitri does nothing. The muscle in his jaw jumps as he clenches his teeth harder, his hands now continuously trembling. Sweat is dripping down his face, but he doesn’t move to wipe it away.

“Take a breath,” Illya tells him. He tries to gentle his voice, but he’s never been good at that. “Get back some control.” He swipes a water bottle from the side of the mats and hands it over. “Dmitri. Breathe.”

Finally, with a long shuddering breath, Dmitri does. “Sorry,” he gets out, once he’s downed half of the water. “I lost-”

“Your temper, a little,” Illya finishes for him. “I know. But you don’t have space for that in a fight. You certainly don’t have space for it here, when we are training. It’s hard to learn, I know, but being angry only makes you do stupid things.”

Something flashes across Dmitri’s face, too quickly for Illya to catch it. “I think I’m working that one out,” he says wryly. “Sir.”

Illya huffs a laugh. “Doing better than I was, when I was your age,” he mutters to himself. “Go fetch a couple of knives. The rubber ones, not the blunted metal ones.”

Dmitri comes back with two rubber knives, both about the length of his forearm. “You’ve got plenty of power to subdue someone,” Illya says, taking one of the knives and twisting it in his hand. “But you’ll come up against someone who is quick enough to avoid those knockout punches, like I am, and then your temper will get the better of you. So we’re going to practice precision hits, and how to disarm a weapon when the other person really doesn’t want to let go of it.”

They start yet again. Illya takes Dmitri through the exercises and drills that still sit in the back of his mind, and they spar back and forth across the mats. Dmitri loses his temper again after about ten minutes, but Illya just lowers the knife and steps back until Dmitri stops trembling, breathes out, and slides back into a stance. “I’ve got it,” he gets out between breaths. “Keep going.”

Illya goes for the side of his neck with the knife. “Keep your hands up!” he snaps as Dmitri parries. “Block with the back of your arms. If this was a real knife it would slice your wrists open.”

Dmitri takes a breath, corrects himself, and then does a disarm that has the knife spinning out of Illya’s hand before he can even move to counter it. There’s a little murmur of pride in Illya’s chest, but he breathes through it, and goes to pick up the knife.

“We’ve been sparring for over an hour now,” Illya says at one point, taking a break to grab a couple water bottles. “What are my weaknesses?”

“None, Sir,” Dmitri answers automatically. Illya levels him with a glare.

“Don’t be an idiot, it doesn’t suit you,” he tells him. “If we were in a real fight, what would you do to subdue me that would give you a clear advantage?”

Dmitri’s gaze rakes him up and down. “You’re tall,” he says.

“Top marks,” Illya says dryly. “So?”

“So your centre of gravity is higher,” Dmitri replies. There’s maybe the barest hints of a smile curling the very corners of his lips. “Throws where I drop my centre of mass below yours would be more effective than any sort of sweep of your legs, because your legs are much longer than mine. But you know how to counter that sort of thing.”

“I do, and I would,” Illya replies. “Keep going.”

Dmitri hums to himself quietly, staring at the ground as he thinks. “You strike most times from a left-sided stance,” he says abruptly. “But you throw right punches more often than you throw left.” He’s staring at Illya now, the wheels working quickly behind his eyes. “You don’t like putting as much weight on your right leg.”

Illya nods, and tries to ignore the flutter of pride in his chest when he sees Dmitri grin. “Nearly shattered my kneecap on a busted undercover mission in Kashmir,” he tells him. “Painful, and it taught me never to try and fight with someone when you’re both on a jet ski. Ever since then it’s not been quite right, and I prefer not to start a strike with all my weight on that knee.” He nods at Dmitri again. “Well done.”

“Jet skis?” Dmitri asks as he sets his water bottle down and rewraps his wrists with a grimace at the damp fabric. “In Kashmir?”

Illya just shakes his head and loosens up his wrists. “You would be surprised,” he mutters. “We had more than our fair shares of lunatics at UNCLE. Normally because other agencies didn’t want to touch them.”

Dmitri picks up the plastic chain that Illya had set out and swings it around a little. “Was the thing with the rich arms dealer and the crocodiles true?” he asks. “I always wondered if Florida really was that-”

“That weird?” Illya asks. “Yes. It was true. And it was hell.” He watches Dmitri swing the chain in lazy arcs around his body, judging the length of his reach and how quick he’s going to be with it. “Russians are not built for Florida summers.”

Dmitri laughs, the sound bright in the room. It makes Illya pause for a second. It’s somehow unexpected. This room smells of sweat and old damp, is filled with the sound of people running themselves into the ground before they hurt someone accidentally. People aren’t meant to be laughing in here.

“Take a breath,” Illya says to Dmitri, readying himself. “Then try to wrap that chain around my head.”

By the time that Illya calls an end to the session, both of them are drenched in sweat. Illya works his jaw again, feeling the bruise that’s slowly blooming across the side of his face. His arms are also red and raw, and will be a motley of purple bruises tomorrow with the amount of times that he’s blocked Dmitri’s strikes. Dmitri probably isn’t faring much better.

“Got it out of your system for now?” Illya asks him as he unwraps his wrists.

Dmitri ducks his head. “Sir,” he mutters.

“We just spent two hours throwing each other around a gym and trying to hit each other with knives and chains,” Illya says dryly. “You can call me Kuryakin.” He throws a towel at Dmitri. “What was it that Zia and you argued over? That made Oleg bench you?”

Dmitri wipes at the back of his neck. “Nothing,” he mutters. He looks up to see Illya’s reproaching gaze, and ducks his head again. “Zia…takes after Gleb. She’s his protégé, after all. And he doesn’t like me.”

There are a hundred different meanings in that sentence, and Illya recognises almost all of them. “They’re doing it on purpose,” he points out. “Not everyone makes it further than where you are now.”

“I’m well aware,” Dmitri says. “Those without enough _potential_, or someone training them, get thrown out soon enough.”

And then get mopped up the military, if they’re lucky, Illya thinks. If they’re not, they can end up on the other side, scraped up out of the gutters by paramilitary groups or mercenaries looking for fresh meat. And then the ones who do survive Lubyanka end up staring them down from the wrong end of a pistol.

“Keep your head down and do your job right, and you’ll get far enough that they won’t matter anymore,” Illya tells him. “And if you feel the need to beat a punching bag to death, come and find me instead. We’ll do this again, and again, until you learn how to control yourself and your temper.”

“Yes, Si- yes,” Dmitri replies. He glances over at him. “I can’t promise I won’t land another hit like that one, though.”

Illya huffs a laugh. “I can’t promise I won’t do the same,” he replies. “Go get changed and get something to eat, then meet me upstairs. Seeing as you missed the exercises out in the city this morning, we’ll go out and I’ll show you the proper way of losing a tail.”

“Oleg benched me,” Dmitri reminds him, surprise on his face for a few moments before he controls his expression.

“Then I’ll un-bench you,” Illya says shortly. “If Oleg has a problem, then he can take it up with me.”

0-o-0-o-0

“He’s benched,” Oleg says flatly.

“So un-bench him,” Illya replies. “He isn’t going to do you any good stuck at that desk.”

“He was benched for a reason,” Oleg says shortly. “He can’t control his temper. And I can’t have him and Zia fighting every time there’s a disagreement over assignments. He needs to learn discipline.”

“Zia isn’t chained to a desk,” Illya points out.

“Zia is Gleb’s protégé, and as such is his to discipline,” Oleg replies. He shoots Illya a warning glance, that Illya promptly ignores. “Dmitri is a loose cannon.”

“I was a loose cannon,” Illya says abruptly. “You never made me sit at a desk for days on end.”

Oleg gives him a look. “You would have exploded and taken down everyone in that room, Kuryakin. I knew better than that. Dmitri is not as volatile as you were.”

“He’s young, and he needs to learn, but he won’t do that if he gets chained to a desk,” Illya replies. He glances out of Oleg’s office door, to where Dmitri is staring at a computer. As he watches, Zia walks back in, shadowing Gleb. They’re too far away for Illya to make out anything that is said, but he watches as Dmitri’s shoulders tense and his frame goes right back to the one Illya had seen as he’d stormed into the gym.

“Chain him to a desk and he’ll just get angrier,” Illya says. “Let me take him out and teach him something useful.”

Oleg hums. “You were always too volatile to have a protégé of your own, before,” he muses. “You’d have broken anyone I gave you. Besides, you were too valuable, and were needed for more important things than _teaching_. But that was a while ago. Maybe you won’t break this one.”

Illya tries to keep his face impassive. “He’s a decent soldier. He could be an excellent agent.”

Oleg waves a hand. “Fine. Take him. Knock some sense into him, see if you can’t make a half-decent agent. But he’s your responsibility. If he keeps getting into fights with other agents, I expect you to deal with it. And don’t forget your other duties playing nursemaid. Find that leak, Kuryakin, and find it before your new puppy is the next one to end up dead.”

Illya doesn’t bother replying. He leaves, grabbing his coat from his own office and tapping Dmitri on the shoulder. “Get your coat,” he tells him. “Meet me outside in the square.”

He finds Azra next. “Bored?” he asks, leaning against the doorframe.

“Immensely,” Azra replies. “What do you have in mind?”

A grin curls Illya’s lips. “Cat and mouse through Moscow,” he says. “I want to teach Dmitri how to throw off a tail.”

Azra grins back at him. “A new puppy for you to train? Let me chase him around the Metro for an hour and we’ll see if his tail is still wagging.”

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby sucks the foam off of her spoon. “I don’t think you really understand my dilemma here, Solo,” she says. “I don’t just have to _look_ expensive, I have to look like I know _exactly_ what expensive really looks like and am purposefully downplaying it to be charitable.” She takes a large gulp of her coffee as Napoleon watches on in mild horror, slightly impressed that she didn’t just burn her mouth and spit it back out. “I was a car mechanic in Berlin a little over a decade ago. I haven’t got a fucking clue how the rich work. Still.”

Napoleon hums, and sips more cautiously at his own coffee. “I would go last season Vuitton, maybe,” he says. “And a Chanel handbag. Definitely not current season couture, and make it obvious that you’re matching things that don’t really match.”

He glances around the café that they’re in. This would be an odd conversation for someone to be overhearing. But there are only a few people within earshot, where they’ve tucked themselves into one corner of the café, and none of them seem to be paying attention. The café is far enough off the well-worn and tacky tourist path that only other Londoners are in here, and there’s an unspoken pact amongst all Londoners that nobody else is worth paying attention to, whether it’s sat in a café or crammed together on the Tube.

Not that Napoleon has stepped foot on the Tube since before Alexi, but still. The point stands.

“How’s Illya?” Gaby asks.

It’s not a pleasant jolt back to the present. Napoleon takes another sip of coffee to hide any flinch from Gaby, and hums. “Busy, I think,” he replies. “He sounds exhausted when I call him in the evenings. I think trying to fix Oleg’s problem is taking up a hell of a lot of…well, everything.”

“I haven’t heard anything else over the chatter,” Gaby says. Her voice is gentle, and Napoleon hates it for a moment. “I would, if anything happened.”

Napoleon sets his coffee cup down with a sharp clink against the saucer. “I’m aware,” he says, trying not to let his voice grow tight. He forces a smile onto his face. “Anyway, have you had a look at the new spring collections from Milan? Useless, if you ask me. I’ve never been fond of what the new designer at Givenchy is doing with their colour palette.”

Since Gaby showed up at his house to find him drunk, since they watched Legally Blonde curled up together on the sofa and Napoleon cried into her shirt until he passed out, every conversation has been like this. Anytime either one of them encroaches too close to forbidden territory, they back off and make every effort to turn back to the mundane. Gaby doesn’t say much about the goings on of UNCLE, and in return Napoleon tries to make himself look like a functioning human being who isn’t falling to pieces.

He’s fairly sure that his pathetic attempts barely pass muster, but Gaby, dear Gaby, is kind enough to not say anything.

Napoleon tries to cut off his train of thought and listen to Gaby’s thoughts on the current fashion trends. His hand trembles slightly where it’s curled around his coffee cup, but he isn’t sure whether it’s one of the latent fears that have been lurking in the corners every time he turns around to look, or if it’s because Gaby had tipped the rest of his scotch down the sink that night and he hasn’t had the heart to disappoint her by buying a new bottle yet.

He might, if he makes it to the end of this week without some minor implosion. If he can make it through the rest of the week at the Institute when he’s pretty damn sure now that he neither is good enough nor deserving enough to be there, then maybe he should get himself a damn reward.

He’s self-aware enough to know that it’s fucked up, but he can’t do anything about that now. He’s way past that point. He isn’t going to be able to do much about it. Not when he’s barely able to hold himself together enough to go to work and actually manage to teach something to someone.

He has no idea how Illya is really doing. He can hear the exhaustion in his voice, but there’s something else there, something that Napoleon has half-convinced himself is satisfaction. Or contentment, possibly. Like Illya has found a part of himself that Napoleon had been denying him for so long.

What Illya had said, standing in front of a half-packed duffel bag with his dress uniform hanging on the back of the door, had been true. Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin. It’s always the two of them, always together, always Napoleon’s name first. Illya was right. Napoleon had overshadowed everything they’d done together, all those insane things they did that now get passed around like some kind of example always his idea. He’d always been at the forefront of every story, Illya a shadow at his shoulder.

He doesn’t know what to think, anymore. Doesn’t know what to make of anything in his head, or whether it can even be trusted.

He’s his own worst enemy, sometimes, when all the people who have tried very hard to kill him for one reason or another aren’t counted. But just because he knows that, doesn’t mean he can do a damn thing about it.

Gaby’s phone chirps brightly at her. She grabs at it, and Napoleon watches as a frown slowly begins to crease her forehead. “I have-”

“To go,” Napoleon finishes for her. “Of course.”

“I’m sorry, darling,” Gaby says, but she’s already typing furiously on her phone with one hand and grabbing for her handbag with the other. Napoleon reaches over and steadies her coffee cup. “I’ll make it up to you. Dinner this weekend?” Her phone chirps again, and her frown deepens. “Maybe next week. Or next weekend. Sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Napoleon gets out. “Go and make sure that the world is still running. I’ll be here when you get back from putting the fires out.”

“Sorry,” Gaby says again. She presses a fumbled kiss to his cheek as she shrugs her coat on and grabs her handbag, nearly spilling her coffee cup again. “I’ll see you later, darling. Promise.”

Napoleon fixes a smile onto his face. “I’ll see you soon,” he replies, and then Gaby whisks herself out of the café and disappears down the street.

Napoleon stays where he’s sat. He sips at his coffee and watches the passers-by amble on, unaware of the constant wheels turning beneath their feet just to try and keep them afloat. How ignorant they must be, to not see the world teetering at every moment as people scramble for power or position, or for a match and some lighter fluid.

How blissful they must be, to look around London and not see anything but the gum perpetually stuck to the pavements, or the pigeons shuffling between the feet of tourists. But then Napoleon supposes that they wouldn’t even be aware enough to know to be blissful.

“_Prado_?”

Napoleon jolts. He looks up at the name, that name he hasn’t heard for so very long, and falls twenty years straight back into the past.

“Prado? It is you!”

Napoleon swallows. The sounds of the café around them gradually filter back, but it’s muted and pale compared to that voice he hasn’t heard for so, so very long. “Delphine?”

Delphine sits down across from him. She reaches out and takes his hand that’s resting on the table, a brilliant smile on her face. “Oh, it is so wonderful to see you,” she says. Her rings cut into his skin slightly as she grips at him.

The rings. That’s right. Delphine always loved rings. She would always claim any they found in the mark’s house, even if they weren’t there for jewellery. She’d loved mixing and matching them, putting thousand dollar rubies right next to something scrounged from a market for a few quid, just to laugh at the incongruity of it.

It’s the same Delphine that’s staring at him from across the table now, as if she can’t look away. She looks older, her face a little more heavily made up to hide lines that Napoleon can just about see, but of course she looks older. It’s been over twenty years since Napoleon last saw her face.

“I don’t even know where to start,” she says. “Prado. Oh, _mon cher_, it truly is wonderful to find you again.”

Napoleon tries to speak, but any words stick in his throat. He stares. He can’t do anything but stare.

Delphine squeezes his hand. She’s still talking, words coming a mile a minute, and Napoleon stares as the words slowly come through.

“-We all heard what happened, with you getting betrayed like that, and then we knew that the CIA had spirited you away, but beyond that it was all rumours and gossip. You know how hard it was to actually find trustworthy information back then, especially when it came to our own people. _Mon dieu,_ Prado, I can’t believe you’re really sat here in front of me. All these years I wondered what had happened to you, where you had gone, and now you’re _here_.”

Napoleon stares at her, and stares at her some more. “Delphine,” he gets out eventually, and the answering smile she gives in return suddenly breaks the dam. “God, _Delphine_,” he murmurs, and then he’s gripping her hand back. “What are you-” He breaks off, something unexplainable suddenly clinging to his throat. “It’s been so _long_. It’s been so goddamn long.”

“What happened to you, Prado?” Delphine asks. “The CIA took you, and then stories started of a smooth-talking agent with skills no agent should have. Nobody was able to confirm anything, nobody who really knew you from back then. Your capture shook quite a few others from their nests, and it was years before any of us were settled enough to start looking for you. And by then, we couldn’t tell which stories were real and which were rookies looking for five minutes of attention.”

“The CIA whored me out as their agent,” Napoleon says. The words leave his lips without permission, but he doesn’t find himself wanting to stop them once they’re said. “It was that or a lifetime in a supermax, where they would kill me if I tried to escape.”

Delphine’s face falls. “So it was true,” she murmurs. “I wasn’t sure. None of us were. Most of the stories we heard had different names attached to them. Your covers, I suppose, but we didn’t even know which name the CIA had for you or where to start.” She sighs. “But you are in London now, _oui_? That is not the CIA’s territory.”

She grips his hand, leaning across the table towards him. This random table in a small café in the backstreets of London, one of many he could have been in today. So many coincidences leading her to be sitting across from him after twenty years since the last time he saw her.

He had watched her walk away down Las Ramblas, and had spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the Sagrada Familia. Less than three months later, he’d been in handcuffs and a prison jumpsuit.

“I’m living here now,” he says quietly. “It hasn’t- I don’t even know where to begin.”

“What is the name you are going by now?” Delphine asks. “I can’t keep calling you Prado in my head, _mon cher,_ but it was the only name you consistently kept back then. The rest you moved between like your collection of suits. Please don’t tell me that they caught you on one of your more flamboyant choices.”

Napoleon wrestles down a shiver of unease down his spine at the question. This is Delphine. She doesn’t know any better. “I think all of my choices were flamboyant back then,” he replies. “But the CIA caught me as Solo. It’s been that ever since.”

Delphine sits back in shock. “Solo?” she asks. “As in, Napoleon Solo?”

Napoleon stares at her as she starts to laugh.

“Oh, _mon cher_!” she gets out between laughs, seemingly unaware of the people slowly starting to turn and stare at them, at her with her head tipped back as she laughs. “I should have known! If even half of those stories are true, then it could only be you who would have the balls to pull it off.”

Her laughter trails off as she looks back at Napoleon. “You must know what I am talking about,” she says. “If it really is all true, Prad- _Solo_, I suppose now, then you must know that tales of your exploits have made it all the way to our people. But it all sounded like rumours and ghost stories, and I never thought it could be you.”

She’s gripping his hand suddenly, leaning forwards across the table. “If I had known,” she says imploringly. “If I had known, then I would have found you years ago.”

Napoleon quirks a brow. “Would you?” he asks. “Would you really have pulled yourself out of whatever heist you were running just off some embellished stories that had finally reached your ears? To _London_, of all places? Or whatever hellhole I happened to be getting shot at in at the time?”

Delphine’s lips curl in a smirk. “There’s a little of the Prado that I know,” she says slyly. “But tell me, what is true? What truly happened to you after the CIA trapped you?”

“The whole story would take months to tell you,” Napoleon says. “But suffice it to say I was an agent of the CIA for…five years, I believe, before being loaned out to Alexander Waverly at UNCLE, and eventually bought away from the CIA to UNCLE. I was there for a little under a decade.”

Delphine hums. “I’d heard a lot of stories of UNCLE, and someone called Solo. I never paid them much attention, not when they didn’t matter much to me, but they still found their way to myself and the rest of us.” She shakes her head slightly. “If I’d _known_…”

“You had no reason to,” Napoleon replies. “The CIA made me keep my head down and get on with their jobs for years before being given any sort of longer leash. And then the habit stuck.”

Delphine grimaces slightly. She pauses, and then turns his hand over in her grip. Napoleon’s wedding ring slides around his finger as she spins it. “What is this?”

Napoleon swallows heavily. “A wedding ring,” he answers.

He nearly doesn’t. He’s not sure why. Illya is sacred to him, but surely he can trust Delphine with that. She never betrayed him in the past, never sold him out to the people chasing him. She wouldn’t use Illya against him.

A second later, and he realises that she has probably already heard the name _Illya Kuryakin_, if she has heard the stories that follow his name like leaking kerosene.

Delphine looks up at him coyly. “I’d never thought I’d see the day,” she says, a smirk slowly growing on her lips. “I suppose those particular stories are true as well, then?” She hums, twisting his wedding ring around his finger. “Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin,” she murmurs. “It does lend a certain weight to it, _non_?”

Napoleon gently pulls his hand out of hers. “I’m aware,” he says softly.

It takes more than he would like to admit to stop himself twisting his wedding ring around himself, wondering whether Illya is doing the same a thousand miles away.

“Where is he now?” Delphine asks. “Kuryakin? I have to admit, I am curious to meet the other half of those stories.”

“Moscow,” Napoleon says shortly.

Some kind of understanding passes across Delphine’s face. “Well,” she says. “We have plenty of time to discuss all sorts of things, now that I have found you again. I am staying in London for the foreseeable future, depending on-” She glances around them, at the oblivious civilians dotted around the care. “Depending on things that would require somewhere more private to be discussed. But that can wait. What are you doing now? I heard that Napoleon Solo retired out of the game a year or so ago. Is that true?”

Alexi’s pleading screams echo in Napoleon’s ears. “I’m a professor at the Cortauld Institute right now,” he hears himself saying, below the sound of Alexi pleading for Illya to kill him.

Delphine’s laugh makes him jolt, and it layers over the sound of Alexi in his head until he can barely hear anything. “Oh Prado, of course you are,” she says, and the screams quiet a fraction more until the buzz of the café returns to normal levels once again. “Still keeping your head down? Hasn’t it been long enough?”

Napoleon doesn’t know what to say to that, and it must show on his face, as Delphine reaches for his hand again. “You have had your wings clipped for so long, _mon cher_,” she says across the table. “I am only relieved that I have found you now. To keep quiet for so long, to keep your head down for all these years, just so that those bastards who hunted you will grow lax and forget about you! It is more than I could have done.”

“No,” Napoleon replies. “You would have probably robbed them, and then shot them for good measure. And then stolen three thousand Euros worth of rings, promised to sell them to fund your next idea, and then turned up to our rendezvous wearing all of them.”

Delphine laughs, her face scrunching up. “Your face when you saw them all. Twenty years, and I can still remember that expression you made, standing there in another of your slick suits, looking every inch like one of those rich bastards we were after.” She glances at him. “I hope that you still have then somewhere.”

“They’re still around,” Napoleon replies. He clutches at the cup of coffee with one hand, but it has long gone cold and there’s no heat left to shock him back awake. “Most of them still fit.”

“Well, you’ll just have to wear one out to dinner with me in a few days,” Delphine says. She squeezes his hand again. “I’ve only just found you. I’m not walking out of here without at least a promise of dinner.”

“Dinner,” Napoleon repeats. He takes a breath, and feels her rings cut into the palm of his hand. “Dinner sounds good.”

Delphine takes out a phone and slides it over to him. “There’s so much to catch up on, Prado,” she says as he puts his number in. “Twenty years of stories. I want to hear everything that happened to you, _mon cher_. All of it.”

Napoleon finds himself on his feet, Delphine gathering her bag and coat. She presses a swift kiss to each cheek. “_À bientôt, mon cher_.”

Napoleon watches her leave the café and disappear amongst the oblivious civilians, long after she’s vanished in the crowds, until he can no longer feel the press of the rings into his palm.

His coffee is still cold when he finally comes back. He leaves it on the table, gathers his things, and disappears into the London crowds. His feet carry him to the steps of the Institute, but he barely notices until he’s walking in the door. He’s too busy looking for a bright red coat, and black hair disappearing into the maze that is London.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, Napoleon's past is back with a vengeance. Delphine has been an absolute blast to write, she's a lot of fun and she has a lot in store for Napoleon. Also, I'm completely on the fence as to whether Napoleon Solo is actually his real name, which is what Delphine is alluding to in this chapter. In the TV series his backstory is completely different and not in any way criminal, so it's his real name there, but also it's a bit of a ridiculous name, and something that a cocky young thief would love for an alias. So it could go either way.  
Illya is only going further down the rabbit hole in Moscow, with how he's getting involved with Dmitri. Also, Oleg did start to get more complex as this story developed, and I have tentative further plans, but he was also very much a dick in this chapter.  
Is it the best idea for Illya to do this with Dmitri? Probably not. Was he ever going to do anything else as soon as he saw him? Nope. What's done is done, and now you'll just have to wait and see how it plays out.  
As always, comments are so so loved and appreciated.


	11. Milan

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For about the past week, I kept reminding myself that I should put a chapter up in the evening, and then promptly forgot. Sorry for that, everyone, but it's been a hectic and stressful few weeks. Sorry it's a bit of a short one this time, next chapter is all one scene and pretty long so I had to cut it here.
> 
> Posting schedule is probably going to be somewhat all over the place for a few more weeks as well, as I'm going into jan exam season and my soul is in the process of being sold to the university in exchange for a masters in chemistry. Every time I stare at notes about relaxation methods in NMR spectroscopy, space groups in x-ray crystallography or just all of statistical thermodynamics a feel a little piece of me die inside.

“Burning the candle at both ends again?”

Napoleon looks up from the book. “I could say the same to you, Cassie,” he says, fingering the page he’s poised to turn over. “Don’t you have a life outside of this place?”

“I’m a PhD student,” Cassie says, flopping down in the chair opposite him and pushing some of his papers back into place when she nearly knocks them over. “We’re not meant to have any life. Our souls were forfeited to the black heart of this place when we signed up to be postgrads. It takes over our lives, our motivations and interests, and in return it gets shitty essays written by people fuelled mostly on Red Bull and spite.” She leans back in the chair, tilting it back on two legs. “Not the best deal, really.”

Napoleon hums. The page crinkles slightly beneath his fingertips as they spasm, and he smooths it back out, ignoring the itch in the back of his head. “You did know what you were signing up for,” he manages to say. “You had warning.”

“Oh, I don’t regret making a deal with the eldritch entity living beneath this place,” Cassie says, a grin on her face at her own joke. It slowly fades as Napoleon just hums again and flips a page of the book, and she brings her chair back down to all four legs. “Heard from Illya recently?”

“He’s busy,” Napoleon says shortly. He runs his thumb over the edge of the book, letting the pages flutter through his fingers. It’s not enough to distract from the echo of rings pressed into his palms, or the sound of startled laughter as civilians look on, wholly oblivious to who was really sat in the corner of that café, but it’s something.

Somewhere, right now, Delphine is wandering around the same city. Maybe she’s sat in a hotel room somewhere, or is in an upscale bar or restaurant. Maybe there’s a date hanging off her arm, Delphine charming another unsuspecting woman over a few cocktails. But she’s in London, she’s within miles of Napoleon after all this time.

He wonders how many times they passed close to each other without noticing. Whether when he was kicking down a door with a gun in his hand, she was slipping out the back door with a set of lockpicks in her hands and an etching tucked under her jacket. How many times could they have been in the same countries, the same cities, and just barely passed each other by without noticing? How many times has his past nearly collided straight with him, only for him to turn down a side street at the last moment and miss it entirely?

He isn’t surprised that she’s heard the stories of him, that her first reaction to hearing the name _Napoleon Solo_ was to not be able to stop laughing. They’ve reached all the way to her, after all, and he can’t quite imagine a world more separate from everything he was at the CIA and UNCLE.

Those memories sit like a tangled mess at the base of his skull, washed over with the sounds of Alexi’s screams and the expression on Illya’s face when Napoleon made him put his gun down. Napoleon shoves them away viciously.

He’d dreamt of long hallways again last night. There was a Futurist painting by Marinetti right next to Goya’s _Sacrifice to Pan_, and it had made him so irrationally angry that he’d woken himself up. And then his fingers had started to itch again, the feeling sliding around under his skin and impossible to get rid of.

There’s a sharp rap on the table. Napoleon blinks, and looks up at Cassie. He can see the concern on her face that she isn’t hiding well enough, in the way that her brow furrows and she leans forwards across the table. “Earth to Solo?” she asks. “What are you thinking about?”

“Just some research,” Napoleon says automatically. “Chapter ideas. Something like that.”

He can tell, he knows just by glancing at Cassie, that she really doesn’t believe him. She opens her mouth, but before she can say anything there’s the shriek of a chair scraping across the floor and the sound of a laptop being slammed shut with a little too much force. Both of them peer around the corner to see a student stalk out of the library. Napoleon just catches a glimpse of unruly black curls and red-rimmed eyes before the student all but runs out the door, his bag banging against the doorframe and nearly sending everything spilling to the ground.

“He’s been in here before,” Napoleon says slowly, staring at the door that’s slowly swinging shut. He’s fairly certain that’s the same student who’s been in here late at night before, and has rushed out like this before. He’d meant to find out who he was, talk to his tutor and make sure everything was okay, but he’d forgotten about that as well. Typical.

“I’m sure he’s fine,” Cassie says, cutting into Napoleon’s thoughts. “This place isn’t terrible about giving mental health help, unlike some other universities. There’s help for him, if he’s willing to look for it. And if he isn’t, then someone will probably notice if something is wrong and hopefully help.”

Napoleon just manages not to snort at that. It all sounds very naïve. “Is it actually that good here?” he asks.

Cassie shrugs. “It’s better than some other places, I know that. It’s not _good_, per say, but it’s not terrible.” She grimaces. “We haven’t had any suicides since I’ve been here. That’s more than can be said for some other universities.”

“Christ,” Napoleon mutters. “Don’t they give a shit about their students? The entire point of a university is to teach, to educate people and give them a better stance in life. It shouldn’t be driving people to suicide, or making them drop out just because the university isn’t well enough equipped to help them.”

Cassie shrugs again. “Well, well above my pay grade,” she says. “There just isn’t enough money, I think. Or not enough that the university is willing to spend on it. Besides, there’s this whole notion that artists have to be struggling, or they aren’t real artists.”

Napoleon stares at her. “But you’re not even artists,” he says. “You’re art historians. There’s a huge difference.”

“Everyone assumes the arts are all the same,” Cassie replies with a grimace. “And because they believe that everyone who studies the arts has money, they don’t care. Not that there aren’t accessibility issues here, because damn there are, but still.” She pauses. “Sorry, I’m rambling.”

“You’re always rambling,” Napoleon replies, earning a huff of laughter from Cassie.

“I should get going before I start haunting this place,” she says, pulling her bag over her shoulder. “Call Illya. I’m sure he’d like to hear from you.”

And then she’s gone, and Napoleon is left staring at the book in front of him. He doesn’t think he’s taken in a single word of it for about an hour. He’s spent the entire damn day thinking of blurred ballrooms and long hallways filled with art that he can’t stop dreaming of, or of days spent running around Europe with Delphine, chasing the highs that were the only things he cared about.

The memory of those highs is a distant thing now, but if Napoleon concentrates hard enough, he might just be able to remember what it felt like.

He doesn’t. He picks up the phone and is calling Illya’s number before he can really think about it.

“Kuryakin,” Illya answers.

“Hey, Peril,” Napoleon says. “It’s me.”

“Oh. Cowboy.” There’s the sound of rustling papers and then the sound of paper spilling onto the floor, closely followed by the phone. Napoleon can just about hear Illya cursing, and then static spills over the phone.

“Sorry, sorry,” Illya says. “I dropped files. Now everything is out of order.”

“Sounds like hell,” Napoleon says wryly. “How is Moscow?”

“Cold,” Illya says. There’s another rustle, and then a sigh that is only just audible. Napoleon can see him now, stretching out along the sofa, phone in one hand and one of those files in the other as he sorts through the papers and puts everything back in the order he likes. “Busy.”

“You sound tired,” Napoleon says. “Everything okay?”

Illya hums. “It’s fine, Cowboy. I’ve just been doing more training with one of younger agents.” There’s a small huff that could be laughter but mostly just turns into static over the line. “He’s much younger than me. I can feel it after sparring now. But he has potential.”

“Oleg asked you to do this as well?” Napoleon asks hesitantly.

“Hmm? No, Dmitri needed someone to actually take him seriously,” Illya says. Napoleon can hear the exhaustion in his voice stretching out his syllables, stealing away the articles from his speech until it’s clipped and short. He’s heard it like this many times. He tries to remember the moments when they’ve just woken up and Illya hasn’t jolted awake but instead dozed for a while, content in not having to be anywhere. It’s difficult when for every one of those times, there’s another one where Illya is exhausted after a mission or injured and in a hospital bed, barely able to string two words together in English but still trying.

“Dmitri?” he asks. There’s a slow sinking in his gut.

“Came up through spetsnaz like me,” Illya mutters. There’s another rustle of paper, and a satisfied hum over the line as Illya puts something back into place. “He’s smart, but runs up against authority on occasion.” There’s yet another rustle of paper. “I pulled his spetsnaz mission reports, and he was good, but had a habit of talking back to authority, especially when missions went sideways. Needs to learn how to control his anger, to not let others get to him. But he could be good. Just needs time, and practice.”

Napoleon tries to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. “Well, whatever you teach him is going to be far better than whatever anyone else there bothers to do. Make sure he knows how to pick a lock properly, will you?”

Illya huffs a tired laugh. “Of course, Cowboy,” he says. “How is London?”

For a brief moment, the words stick in Napoleon’s throat. He can feel them building up on his tongue, and he knows that if he was to open his mouth they would all flood out down the phone, thousands of miles away to where Illya sits alone in a hotel room, surrounded by files. He could just open his mouth, and tell Illya everything.

If he asks, he thinks that Illya would come home. If he opens his mouth and lets the words that are pooling on his tongue fall out, then he thinks that Illya would pack up his bags and be on the next flight out. Or maybe that’s wishful thinking. Maybe that’s arrogance working its way to the front again, making him believe that Illya would do anything he asks of him, that he exists only for him.

It’s exactly the same thing that made Illya leave in the first place. And that’s not fair.

Alexi echoes in his head again, and he swallows heavily. “It’s going fine, Peril,” he says. “Same as usual. Definitely not much compared to Moscow.” He fishes around for something to say. He can barely think of anything that has happened at the Institute in the past few days, compared to this afternoon in that random café.

“Heard from Gaby recently?” Illya asks. “I haven’t heard much through chatter here about anything major going on.”

“Yeah, we’ve had coffee a few times recently, and she came over to watch Legally Blonde last week,” Napoleon replies. “But she’s busy right now, I think.” He huffs a laugh that he tries to not make bitter. “She’s the Director, she’s always busy. But I’m sure she’d love to hear from you.”

Illya hums. “Maybe I’ll give her call,” he murmurs. “What time is it there?”

“Nearly nine,” Napoleon replies with a glance at the clock. He pauses. “Christ, that means it must be what, midnight for you? What time do you have to be in tomorrow?”

“Promised Dmitri I’d take him out and practice tailing a mark through city,” Illya mutters. “So, early.”

“You’re putting a lot of time into Dmitri, by the sounds of it,” Napoleon says cautiously. He can’t help asking, already bracing for Illya’s reply even though he’s sure that it’s only going to make things worse. It’s not like he deserves anything better.

“He needs guidance, and proper training,” Illya replies. Napoleon can tell he’s barely awake, only just managing to keep track of the conversation. “Or he’ll get thrown out because he goes after someone and nobody is there to back him up. And then he’d probably get scraped out of gutter by paramilitary groups and be dead in a few years.” He sighs, a soft rustle of static over the phone. “I’d rather not see that happen to him.”

“Well if anyone can prevent that, then I’m sure it’s you,” Napoleon says, managing to put some cheer in his voice that doesn’t come across as false by sheer force. “But you should go to sleep, Peril. You want to be able to keep up with Dmitri tomorrow, after all.”

He can hear Illya’s glare through the phone. “I’ll call you soon, Cowboy,” he says. “And I’ll give Gaby call at some point as well.”

“She’d love to hear from you,” Napoleon replies. “Now go to sleep. You’ve been dropping your articles throughout this entire conversation, you’re obviously tired.”

Illya must be exhausted, because he doesn’t even try to argue. “Love you, Cowboy,” he murmurs, probably already halfway to sleep. Napoleon echoes him back, and then the line is dead.

For a long moment, Napoleon doesn’t move. When he does, it’s only to take the phone away from his ear. His call history stares merrily back at him. Other than a couple conversations with Gaby, it’s mostly _Peril_ staring back at him. The little numbers to the right get steadily smaller and smaller as the date goes up, the timestamp slowly shrinking down.

With a soft click, the call history disappears, and Napoleon is left staring at the little notification circle hovering above the messages app. It opens, and there’s one brand new, unread message sitting at the top, the number unfamiliar but the message instantly recognisable.

_Dinner soon? We have so much to talk about._

He opens it. His thumbs hover over the keyboard for a split second before he starts to type.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya sets the phone down. It promptly slides off the top of the stack of mismatched papers and sends half of them fluttering to the floor. Illya bites back a curse and picks them back up. They’re all out of order again, but he can fix it in the morning.

He sits there for a moment, neatly typed lines and lines of mission report after mission report floating behind his eyes, and then snatches his phone back up.

Gaby answers on the third ring. “Illya,” she says. “Are you calling for a chat? Or do you need something?”

“Have you spoken to Napoleon recently?” Illya asks instead.

“I saw him for coffee this afternoon,” Gaby replies. Her voice turns, a hint of worry entering it. “Why? What’s wrong?”

“I-” Illya pauses. “I don’t know. I just spoke to him. He sounded wrong.”

“He’s been having a hard time, Illya,” Gaby says, her voice gentling. “He misses you. And he’s still struggling with fitting Alexi and everything that happened into his head. He likes things to make sense, Solo does, and this doesn’t yet.”

She pauses. “I’ve heard that Alexi is still in Moscow. Illya, have you-”

“No,” Illya snaps. “And don’t ask me again, Gaby.”

“Apparently he’s consented to seeing a psychiatrist,” she continues. “Maybe it would help if you went to see him. Just to get closure.”

“I don’t need closure, and I don’t need to be anywhere near him,” Illya growls down the phone. “And you’re avoiding my question. What’s wrong with Napoleon?”

“He’s just missing you,” Gaby says. “And there’s a lot going on for him. He’ll get there eventually.”

There’s something in the lilt of her voice. Someone less experienced, or someone who hadn’t spent a decade working beside her, wouldn’t even think to look for it, let alone manage to notice anything. Illya is neither of those things. Napoleon may have always been the one with the silver tongue and the quick eyes, able to read anything off a mark much better than either of them ever could, but Illya has always had good instincts. He knows when to trust them.

“What is it, Gaby,” he says, his voice flat. “What aren’t you telling me.”

He can hear Gaby curse under her breath, in what he thinks is either German or Afrikaans. She’s obviously been spending way too much time with Aja, probably blowing things up that don’t necessarily need blowing up. “Look,” she says. “You have a lot on your plate right now, and I didn’t want to stress you out or worry you when you’re all the way over in Moscow and you need to keep yourself focused on what you’re doing there.”

“Considering I now know that you know something and aren’t telling me, it isn’t exactly going to make me _less stressed_ if you don’t say anything,” Illya points out. “Spit it out, Gaby.”

Gaby is quiet for a long moment. “I found him drunk at the house, last week,” she says, her voice measured and calm.

Illya’s hand spasms around the phone. For a brief moment he’s sure that he broke it, that the call ended, but he realises that Gaby has just stopped talking. “How bad?” he asks in a voice that doesn’t quite feel like his own. “Milan?”

“No, not really,” Gaby replies with a sigh. “I poured everything I could find down the sink, once he’d passed out on the sofa. But that isn’t stopping him from buying more, and if I were to try and watch him constantly he’d only get suspicious and we’d get into another screaming match. I’ve been trying to spend more time with him since then. Not just because of this, though. With you gone, I think he’s feeling lonely. I think he just needs a friend right now.”

Illya runs a hand over his face. “He knows how bad it got last time,” he murmurs. “He knows. We’ve talked about it before.” He breathes in, and tries to not let worry trickle over into anger like it’s so easy to do. “Don’t tell him I know. He’ll worry that I’m worrying about him and not paying enough attention to Moscow, and then that’ll just make things worse for him.”

“Yes, I’m very well aware of your co-dependent worrying circle that you both get going as soon as you’re apart,” Gaby says. “Don’t you remember when I was with you in Virginia and Napoleon was in Paris trying to break into some safe? I practically held your hand throughout the entire op until Napoleon was on the plane to the States.”

“Yes, I remember,” Illya gets out through gritted teeth. “Keep an eye on him, Gaby. I don’t want a frantic call from you in the middle of the night from his bathroom.”

“I can promise you that I do not want to relive Milan as much as you,” Gaby replies. “And I promise that it won’t happen on my watch. But you need to watch yourself. I don’t think Moscow has relented since you were last there.”

“No offense, Gaby, but you have no idea of Moscow,” Illya says shortly. “I think I know how this place works better than you do.” There’s a long silence over the phone, and Illya curses under his breath. “Sorry, sorry,” he mutters. “I know you’re only trying to help.”

Gaby hums. “You’d think that after literally a decade of this, we would have learnt how this sort of thing works,” she says. “And yet we stumble around like this every time.” She sounds tired, and Illya can just about make out the hum of UNCLE headquarters in the background, the sound ingrained in him enough to recognise it even a thousand miles away.

“Go home, Gaby,” he says. “Get some sleep. You’re the director now, you can’t stay up all night like we used to.”

“You’re one to talk,” Gaby says, but Illya can tell that she’s hiding a yawn. “I’ve heard through the grapevine that you’re training someone.” There’s a huff of laughter over the line as Illya fails to stifle a groan. “Spies gossip, remember.”

Illya thinks of the vicious looks Gleb has been giving him whenever they pass by each other. Zia has been more overtly aggressive towards Dmitri as well, ever since the word got out that Illya has taken him as his protégé. It’s only a matter of time before one of them tries something. “That’s not all they do,” he mutters. “But yes. Dmitri. He’s inexperienced, but he could be good.”

Gaby hums. “Be careful, Illya. Don’t commit something that you can’t follow through on.”

There are a thousand words in that, but Illya is too tired to unpack any of them. “I know, chop shop girl,” he mutters. “Now go to sleep.”

“Only if you do too,” Gaby responds, a laugh in her voice. An ache blooms in Illya’s chest at the sound. He hangs up before he can say anything stupid.

He doesn’t go to sleep, though. The files are still strewn across the coffee table and spilling onto the floor. Illya scoops up a haphazard pile, the paper crumpling under his hands, and shuffles through them until Dmitri’s face is staring back up at him from the top of his spetsnaz personnel file. He’s glaring at the camera, just like Illya remembers for every single spetsnaz personnel photo he’s ever seen, and he still has the remnants of those ridiculous buzzcuts they were given in training.

Dmitri’s life is scattered across the coffee table and parts of the floor, rumpled and creased as Illya had waded through them. Mission report after mission report float behind his eyes, and Illya spreads them out a little on the table as he looks through them.

He was good. Not infallible, but then nobody ever is in the spetsnaz, where things always go wrong in the most spectacular ways they can. But still, he was very good. Good enough for Oleg to find him and bring him to Lubyanka after only five years.

The reports are sparse, but Illya knows how to read between the lines. There are moments not written down, actions and reactions that don’t make it onto the pages or mission objectives that are blacked out even for his clearance, but Illya manages to tease them out. He starts to slowly build them up.

_Yuvchenko received moderate injuries in retrieval of _[redacted]. _Mikhailov received major injuries and captured at 2350. Yuvchenko led secondary extraction team, Mikhailov was retrieved at 0430 and evacuated to base hospital._

_Infiltration team: Mikhailov, Yuvchenko, Averin. Route of infiltration changed on ground to south-south-west (see map ST315-6) to avoid civilian settlement outside of rebel camp._

_Extraction team: Averin, Yuvchenko. Translator Haddad and family evacuated to _[redacted]_ with mission objective, due to reported credible and immediate threat to life. Decision was made on ground._

Illya hums as he flips through the reports. In the days since he first promised to train Dmitri, he’s been watching the boy, watching how he works and operates. It seems that the pattern goes even further back. No wonder Dmitri has started to ask furtive questions about the missions that Illya had been on at UNCLE, the lesser known ones that Illya can actually feel proud looking back at, instead of the sensational ones that everyone knows about.

He’s still wary, too wary to outright ask Illya about what he did at UNCLE and the missions he was a part of. Illya just needs to wait him out. And deal with Gleb before he makes too much of a problem.

He falls asleep with scenarios running through behind his eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, comments are much much loved and appreciated, especially right now as I descend into exam madness. I hope that everyone had a good holiday, or if it isn't the easiest time of year (I get that), that you're able to rest now. Feel free to pester me in the comments or on tumblr, theheirofashandfire, if you want to talk meta or characters or just yell at me for being mean to Napoleon and Illya all the time. I promise a happy ending is coming, it's just a ways off.


	12. Spray Paint

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof. Sorry it's been a few weeks, exams knocked me for six and I've only just finished and gotten back enough energy to get around to a new chapter. This one is...well, by my standards it's not super angsty, but you know how you've all been saying in the comments that Illya has been holding it together much better than Napoleon? Yeah, that's about to change. Warnings for typical canon-level violence, homophobia and descriptions of a panic attack.
> 
> Oh, and the final scene is occurring at exactly the same time as the end of the first one- in other words, the two phone calls are the same call. That will make sense, and is going to hurt.

Dmitri nearly jumps out of his skin when Illya lets the file fall onto the mats with a sharp smack. “Sir?” he says breathlessly, wiping the sweat out of his eyes. The punching bag hits into his back and he swats it away. “Is there something you need?”

“For you to stop calling me _Sir_, to start,” Illya reminds him. He frowns when he sees Dmitri’s eyes immediately jump away from his face and focus on the floor. “Pick up the file, Dmitri, and then explain why.”

Dmitri picks the file up. He fumbles it, hands sweaty, and nearly drops it before managing to get it open. Illya watches as he reads, brow furrowed for a second, before his expression smooths out. “It’s the proposal I wrote for the mission Oleg is planning in Kuwait.” He flips through a few of the pieces of paper. “This is everything. It’s not missing any of the contingency plans I proposed, or the maps.”

Illya takes the file back. “I’ve seen the other proposals, the ones that the other juniors like you have put forwards,” he says, flicking through the pages slowly. “I’ve seen seven of these. All of the other ones are similar. Same suggested entry points into the compound. Similar team numbers and firepower. Same extraction routes, on the whole.” He turns over another page in the file. “Why is this one so different?”

Dmitri stares at him. “I wasn’t aware that it was,” he says cautiously.

Illya snaps the file shut. “What was the objective, Dmitri?” he asks. “What is everyone expected to try and put together?”

“The most effective mission proposal,” Dmitri parrots easily. “The most secure chance of achieving the stated objectives with the minimal extraneous loss of Russian resources.”

Illya remembers those lines. He could probably still have quoted them alongside Dmitri. “And what is this?” he asks instead.

Dmitri glances down at the file. “Sir?”

“This,” Illya says, flipping the file open, “is not the most effective mission proposal I know you could have produced. You were spetsnaz. You know what makes a mission work, and you know what gets people killed. Why did you put this forward?”

He can see the hesitation in Dmitri’s frame. For a moment he thinks he’s pushed too far, that Dmitri is just going to bow his head and mutter some sort of apology, but then he sees that little muscle tick in his jaw. “It is the most effective mission proposal, Sir,” Dmitri says, staring straight ahead.

Illya sees his opening. “Why?” he snaps. “Give me a proper answer, Dmitri. Why should I let this go any further up the chain, why should this end up on Oleg’s desk with the other files that most would say are much better proposals, much more efficient plans with minimal losses-”

“Russian losses!” Dmitri snaps. “None of the others bother with anything else! They don’t give a damn that their extraction routes will take them right through a civilian settlement that the insurgents would sooner torch to the ground than allow anyone to live after we pass through, they don’t give a damn that their designs don’t consider the possibility that there might be prisoners kept in that compound, or children that don’t deserve to get blown up just because it’s more _efficient_. None of them give a damn about that! So yes, this is the best mission proposal I can give! It is the most effective! No plan that considers the murder of innocents and says it’s good enough without doing everything they can to avoid it can be any good!”

He’s breathing hard when he finally runs out of steam, eyes wide. They only widen as he stares at Illya. “Sir,” Dmitri says, his voice almost stammering. “I can-”

He reaches out for the file. Illya snatches it out of his grasp.

“It is the best proposal I read,” he says, his voice steady. “And you are right. But you are also smart. And you know that this will never be seriously considered. You’re only making yourself look less reliable, less trustworthy, if you keep putting forwards ideas like this. I know that you know this, Dmitri.”

Dmitri draws a deep breath. He wipes the sweat out of his eyes. “They wanted my best, so I gave my best,” he says quietly. “If it moves the objectives at all, if they even have that village only in the back of their minds when the extraction route is planned, then it could make some difference. It could be worth it.” His gaze drops down to the file still in Illya’s hands. “Should I change it?”

“No,” Illya replies. “But understand this, Dmitri. I can’t back it. I can’t back plans like this, not now. Not yet. If you keep this up, you will only be ostracised further, and I can’t protect you all the time.” He presses the file into Dmitri’s hand, gripping his shoulder until Dmitri looks up and meets his gaze. “Keep your head down,” Illya says firmly. “Survive these next few months, the next few years. If you still find yourself wanting to draw up plans like this in a few years, by then you’ll have the power to do so. But that doesn’t matter if you don’t get there first.”

He watches as Dmitri draws in a shuddering breath and manages to wrestle some control back over himself. “And what if I get there and I don’t come up with plans like this?” he asks, his voice suddenly small.

For a moment, Illya wants to grab Dmitri and walk straight out of the building. He wants to shove him into a car and drive until Moscow is far behind them and out of sight.

He quashes that random thought with a ruthlessness that shouldn’t surprise him anymore. It isn’t helpful. Dmitri is still staring at the ground, the file crumpling where his hands are holding onto it so tightly. “I’ll make sure that doesn’t happen,” he says instead.

Dmitri snorts. “We are spies,” he mutters. “We shouldn’t make promises.”

The words echo in Illya’s ears. Time slips, the hulls of boats passing too close scraping against each other and sticking. For a moment he’s eight years younger and standing in a damp basement, Napoleon a heavy weight slumped against his side as he heaves him to his feet. He can smell the iron tang of fresh blood as it seeps into his shirt from the cuts down Napoleon’s side, the sweet cloying smell of some drug on Napoleon’s breath as he tucks his head into the crook of Illya’s neck. The comms unit fizzles in his ear, someone always listening on the other end, but he doesn’t even notice as Napoleon mutters nonsense into his shoulder.

He’d said those words, then, as Napoleon had rambled. He hadn’t ever thought that anyone was listening in, or that those words were enough to be whispered between spies all the way to Moscow.

“Where did you hear that?” he hears himself asking.

Dmitri shrugs. “Around,” he replies. “The spetsnaz first, I think. It’s just one of those things that people say.”

Illya has absolutely no response to that.

Dmitri follows him upstairs, rubbing the towel around his neck over his face and head until his hair is sticking up in all directions. Illya watches him out of the corner of his eye. He’s doing better, managing those flares of anger better now that Illya spends a few hours every other day throwing him around the gym. There’s still something else there, something that Dmitri won’t talk about, but it’s early days yet. It’ll take time for Dmitri to trust him properly.

Trust isn’t something that comes easily to the people who haunt Lubyanka.

“There’s a strategy meeting tomorrow afternoon with the Colonel,” Illya tells him as they head into the office, glancing back over his shoulder at Dmitri. “I want you to sit in, if you can keep quiet and not run your mouth-”

Dmitri has stuttered to a stop. His gaze is locked onto something behind Illya.

Illya slowly realises that the room has gone silent. He turns around to follow Dmitri’s gaze, follows it straight to his closed office door.

The spray paint has dripped, leaving drops of bright red across the carpet. It was scrawled in a hurry, the _g_ bleeding into the _o_, and it hasn’t quite dried yet. There is a smear across the bottom of the _F_ at the beginning.

Dmitri is trembling. Illya can see it in the line of his jaw, just out of the corner of his eye.

Everyone is watching. Oleg’s door is shut, Oleg in meetings all afternoon, but almost all of the agents are here and staring at him. Illya scans their faces. Some are blank, some are wide-eyed and nervous. There is a smirk or two struggling to be hidden. Most of those fade as soon as Illya looks at them.

“I want a name,” Illya says. He sees the flinches at his voice and a steady anger settles over him, sinking into his bones. His hands curl slowly into fists at his sides. “_A. Name.”_

There’s a low murmur through the ranks, and then the junior agents slowly part. They shuffle away from each other, eyes trained straight ahead of them.

Zia stares steadily back at him from the space the others leave around her. “Sir.”

Illya steps up close to her. “There are two ways this can go,” he murmurs in her ear. “I can take this up the chain of command. I’ll make both of our lives hell, and Oleg will be pissed off with me, but I will make damn sure that his anger will be directed at you more than me.”

“You can’t prove it was me,” Zia says, a snarl just leaking through into her voice.

“If you think I can’t, then you have underestimated me more than you even realised,” Illya murmurs, his voice a deadly calm in her ear. “I was at Oleg’s side when you were running around a playground and tripping up the other kids. You’re a junior agent that someone scrounged up from Samara. Who do you think he is going to believe? Who is more valuable to him?”

Illya stares her down until he sees that little flicker of doubt cross her face. “The other option is that you come down to the gym with me, and we see who comes out on top. And then I say no more about it.”

He steps back. “It’s up to you.”

Zia looks up at him, her lip curling. “Lead the way,” she spits.

Without another word, Illya turns on his heel and leaves. He hears Zia walk after him, and then the murmurs start up behind them. Dmitri doesn’t look at him as he walks past, but he sees him turn out of the corner of his eye and begin to follow them.

There are a few people in the gym when Illya pushes the doors open, but they take one look at him and flee, water bottles and towels discarded behind them. Illya barely gives them a second glance. The anger has wrapped so securely around him now, sinking deep into his bones, and he barely remembers to shrug off his jacket and his shoes before turning to face Zia.

There are agents arrayed behind her, spreading out and hugging the walls. They’re silent, all staring at him and Zia with carefully controlled expressions. Only Dmitri looks any different. For a moment Illya thinks he is about to say something, call out or do something foolish. But a moment passes, and Dmitri seems to wrestle back some control.

Zia has thrown her own jacket to one side. Her shoes follow quickly, and she rolls up her sleeves. There’s a grin on her face, but Illya watches as she shifts from foot to foot, not quite finding the right balance straight away.

Illya sinks into a stance and the anger slowly curls around his frame.

Zia’s first punch is lightning quick, a jab straight to his face. Illya sidesteps it, knocking it away from him. He throws a fist towards her stomach, and she only just deflects it in time. Her next punch goes straight for his temple.

This isn’t sparring. This isn’t the training that Illya has spent so much time doing down here, in this basement that always smells of damp and sweat, an iron tang of old blood overlaying everything. This isn’t Dmitri in front of him. Zia’s lip is curled as she dodges and parries his blows. He catches one blow and forces her arm up and around until pain flashes across her face in a grimace. Her feet struggle for purchase against the mats.

She turns and spits in his face.

A low murmur echoes through the room from the agents lining the walls. Illya releases her and shoves her back, putting her off balance.

He doesn’t give her a chance to recover it. Zia is backing up now. He lands one hit to her side, and then another to her stomach that makes her double over and wheeze for breath. It’s easy enough to kick out and send her reeling across the floor.

She gets back up and rushes him. Illya drops at the last second and the punch sails harmlessly over his head. His fist connects squarely with her jaw.

She doesn’t fall. She staggers back, shaking her head, and then comes at him again, teeth bared and bloody. She’s desperate now, all her weight behind her swings. A few land. They smart across his side, the line of his jaw when he doesn’t quite turn quickly enough, but he barely notices them. He hits back, pushing her back until she’s nearly up against the wall.

Zia realises it. She rushes him, a last desperate attempt. It’s easy for Illya to sidestep and then take all that momentum of a wild punch, grabbing her shoulder and twisting his body. She flies through the air and lands heavily on the mats with a slam.

Illya straightens up. He can taste blood in his mouth, and he spits it out to one side as he walks over to Zia. “Are you finished?” he asks quietly.

She looks up at him from where she’s sprawled on the floor. There’s a bruise blooming across her jaw, and a trickle of blood from the corner of her mouth. Illya stares down at her for a few more seconds, and then turns towards the door.

The other agents are still lined up around the wall. There are more than a few smirks amongst them, agents enjoying whatever entertainment they can find within these walls. Illya ignores them, and his eyes pass over Dmitri.

Dmitri’s eyes widen, and a split second later Illya hears the sound of running footsteps. He spins in place to see Zia almost on top of him, teeth bared in a bloody snarl. She swings at him, and Illya ducks, grabbing the collar of her shirt and throwing her over his shoulder. She hurtles down towards the ground. They’re off the mats now, and the ground beneath Illya’s feet is hard concrete.

At the last moment Illya stops. His fist tightens on the collar of her shirt and her head stops a few inches above the concrete. He breathes out, and then breathes again. There’s a buzzing in his head that’s growing louder by the second.

“Enough,” he says. “That’s enough.”

He puts her down, and Zia’s eyes widen when she feels her head tap the concrete beneath her. “Clean it up,” Illya tells her, and then he walks away.

It’s as if a spell has broken. Almost immediately a low murmur breaks out amongst the agents watching, the sound slowly growing until it almost matches the buzzing in Illya’s head. Nobody steps past him towards Zia, but as Illya throws the doors open and walks out there’s abrupt movement out of the corner of his eye. He turns to see Dmitri and another junior agent shoving at each other, angry gestures and hissed words just barely audible to his ears.

“Enough!” he shouts. He grabs Dmitri by the scruff of his shirt and pulls him away with one hand, shoving the other agent back with the other.

Dmitri pulls himself away from his grasp. The buzzing intensifies until it’s all Illya can hear.

“Enough,” he hears himself say again. He lets go of Dmitri and walks away.

His feet still know Lubyanka. They still know these halls, and they carry him away when he can barely see for the white noise now eclipsing his vision. A tremble works its way up from his hands until he’s clenching his jaw so tight that he can taste blood in his mouth. It pools on his tongue until he has to swallow it down, and even then the iron tang still coats his mouth. He can’t spit it out.

His feet take him further into the maze that is Lubyanka, the colours slowly leaching from the walls as he walks. Dust slowly builds up in the corners of forgotten corridors where even the cleaners don’t reach. A right turn, then two lefts, then a nudge to the old fire door that doesn’t quite shut right, and his feet finally let him stop.

The stairwell is empty. His gasps echo off the concrete as he sinks to the cold concrete floor and buries his head in his hands. His hands that are smeared with blood from Zia’s mouth, that are twinging and beginning to bruise, the aches settling into his body and pulling it down.

His entire body is shaking. Everything is cracking and splintering into a thousand jagged pieces, each one burying itself into him until all he can feel is those shards digging deep into his skin, down into his bones and spearing through him, pinning him down to the floor until all he can do is clutch at his hair with shaking hands and feel himself fall apart.

He gasps for breath, trying in vain to pull some air into his lungs and keep it there for more than a moment. He can fix this. He’s fixed this before. It’s not that hard.

His phone is in his hand before he even realises he’s reached for it. Napoleon’s number is on the screen. Illya swallows around the taste of blood coating his mouth and presses call.

The phone is trembling wildly as he presses it to his ear. There’s a series of electronic whines and beeps that makes Illya cringe, and then a long flat whine. _The person you’re calling is unavailable right now_, the phone informs him in a crisp voice. _Please leave a message after the tone._

Illya isn’t sure he actually hangs up. The phone is now on the other side of the stairwell, the casing shattered and lying in pieces on the concrete. His hand is back clutching at his hair now, and all he can hear are frantic gasps for breath. His breath hitches, and a whimper cuts through the gasps until he can’t breathe and he’s frantically trying to draw in air. The sound echoes in the stairwell and in his ears over and over again.

Even that fades out. White noise eclipses everything. There is blood coating his mouth, and the taste is so familiar.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon jumps when a sharp buzzing cuts through the smooth ambience of the restaurant. A couple sitting next to them gives him a sharp glare.

“Silence it before the maître d’ murders us for impropriety,” Delphine says. She sparkles in the low lighting of the restaurant, the quiet classical playing in the background the perfect accompaniment. The necklace hanging around her neck, the one she’s currently playing with and twisting around her fingers, must be worth at least thirty grand. Napoleon’s cufflinks feel inadequate.

Napoleon turns it over to see Illya’s name lighting up the screen. “Important?” Delphine asks lightly. “Step outside for a moment if you want, I don’t mind.”

Napoleon stares at the screen. “No, it’s fine.” With a click, the screen goes dark again. He turns back to Delphine, reaching easily for his wine glass. “So, did Tomas ever end up getting the statuette back?”

“Oh, he managed it eventually, but he has a lot of open favours now, and the Spanish are _not_ happy with him over the entire affair.” Delphine delicately takes another bite of her black truffle mille-feuille. “I’m telling you, Prado, the kids just don’t know how to do anything right these days. They all expect it to be handed to them on a silver platter, and to be able to merely pull something up on a computer screen and have everything solved for them by some unfeeling algorithm. There’s no…”

“Finesse?”

“Exactly,” Delphine says, pointing her fork at him. “There’s no _passion_, Prado. It’s all been traded in for software programs and algorithms. An algorithm doesn’t experience joy! It doesn’t understand the thrill of finally opening that safe, or spending months working out just the right way past the security measures.”

Napoleon smiles wryly over the rim of his wine glass. “God forbid it’s ever easy.”

“I distinctly remember you making my life more difficult than it had to be multiple times,” Delphine replies. “Besides, which heists do you remember, Prado? Which are the ones that you remember every footstep of, the ones you could recreate in your sleep? It isn’t the ones that were easy, that we did to pass the time in between proper jobs.”

She’s almost glowing in the restaurant now, her smile just as dazzling as Napoleon remembers it to be. “It’s the ones where everything was balanced on a knife edge that you still remember, Prado. The ones that took months of practice and preparation before we were even close to pulling it off. And the euphoria of it! The dance coming together so beautifully until everything was _sublime_ in its perfection. Oh, how wonderful it was!”

Napoleon leans back in his chair. “Yes,” he murmurs. “Yes, it rather was.”

“Don’t you remember those days in Vienna, all those years ago? You, myself, Matthieu when he could spare himself from his little pet projects over in Salzburg. I don’t know why he bothered with those, he always had much more fun with us.” She levels Napoleon with a meaningful look, a sly smirk curling her lips. “Always had far more fun with you if I remember correctly. More than once I was locked out of that hotel room and had to go entertain myself elsewhere.”

“It’s somewhat different now,” Napoleon reminds her, spinning his wedding band around his finger. “And it’s staying that way.”

“I haven’t heard from Matthieu since last year, but he’s still around,” Delphine continues. “Hong Kong, maybe, last I heard? Knowing him, he’s egging both sides on just for a decent distraction for whatever he has planned. He’ll be delighted to know I’ve found you.”

“If he tries to rope me into cryptocurrency or some such nonsense, I will hit him,” Napoleon warns. “He was always obsessed with those sorts of new-fangled technologies.” He hums. “He did know how to enjoy a nice scotch, though.”

He does remember Vienna. Delphine liberating two bottles of champagne from the restaurant whilst he distracts the chef and waitress, and their ensuing escape to the hotel roof via the fire escape. Matthieu’s manic grin as another piece of the plan falls into place, the two of them running through the back garden of some hideously expensive house with a statuette tucked into Matthieu’s pocket and a lovely little Picasso etching in his own.

If he concentrates, he can feel that heady euphoria that had carried him halfway across Europe and through nearly three cities before it began to fade and he’d started searching for something else. Matthieu had gone back to Salzburg by then, Delphine south to Rome and possibly the country house that Napoleon wasn’t meant to know about, and each of them had €450,000 securely in their offshore accounts.

“Who have you been running with in the past few years then?” Napoleon asks.

Delphine makes a face and somehow still stays elegant. “Many of the people we knew are out of the game, for one reason or another. Some of them are retired, some were caught, and some are dead. Maria was double-crossed by some bastards when trying to get across the Swiss border, and then Hans ran afoul of a drug cartel when heading through Egypt. Amelia and Elias went after him as soon as they heard there was trouble, but they were too late to do anything but try and mop up the pieces.” She shrugs, taking a sip of her wine. “We got the bastards that took Maria though. You would have approved of what we did to them. They certainly won’t double-cross anyone ever again.”

“I’d heard about Hans,” Napoleon replies. “But I was far too late to try and do anything, and on the other side of the world anyway.” Chasing down a smuggling ring in Vietnam, if he remembers correctly. But all of that doesn’t fit in here, at this table with Delphine smiling that smile across at him.

“Well, it was all years ago,” Delphine says. “I’m mostly working on my own now. The younger ones, they just don’t have the _passion_, Prado. They don’t have the finesse, the style, the devotion to what we do! Not like you and I, back in those days. They believe that it’s enough to hack into an offshore bank, that it’s just the money that matters, when there is so much more to what we do!”

“Yes, why do something that gets you an obscene amount of money quickly and easily?” Napoleon asks dryly.

Delphine laughs, and the very sound seems to glimmer in the low light of the restaurant. “_Prado._ You know very well what I mean. Why use a computer when there is a set of lockpicks in your pocket? It’s so much more…_intimate_.”

She holds Napoleon’s gaze for a few seconds before a bright peal of laughter slips through her lips. “I can tell you are thinking something inappropriate, and you should stop it. We are in a Michelin starred restaurant. Honestly! I can’t take you anywhere.”

“I feel obliged to point out that it was you who got us, or at least our fake identities at the time, banned from l’Abeille,” Napoleon reminds her. He gives her a look over the rim of his wine glass. “You were always the one with the truly ludicrous ideas.”

“Ah, but then that was because you were with me, and I was showing off. You can’t have believed I did all of that without wanting to show off just a little bit, can you? Do you even remember-”

She breaks off as a waiter approaches with the main course. “Beautiful,” Delphine murmurs as the plates are set down in front of them, monkfish arranged artfully on a bed of peas and artichokes. “And the wine?”

“We have a Château Pape Clément that pairs excellently with this fish, ma’am,” the waiter replies, pulling out a bottle.

Delphine purses her lips. “No, that simply won’t do. Send out the sommelier, will you? I’d like to ask his opinion.”

The waiter gracefully disappears, and Napoleon arches a brow at her over the table. “Château Pape Clément goes perfectly well with fish, especially a monkfish, and you very well know that,” he remarks. “What is the sommelier going to do for you?”

Delphine’s smile turns wicked. “I just want to make them sweat for a minute or two. Play the entitled rich woman. It’s harmless fun, Prado, nothing more.”

Napoleon hums sceptically, but says nothing as the sommelier comes back and Delphine spends a good two minutes discussing the merits of particular wines with the sommelier until another bottle is fetched, tasted and declared satisfactory. “There,” Delphine says. “Now it’s right.”

“It was right the first time,” Napoleon points out. He smells the new wine, and tastes it. “But this wine is indeed very good.” Delphine arches a brow, and then she starts laughing.

It’s infectious, and Napoleon can’t help but join in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep. I know. I'm so horrible.
> 
> To be somewhat fair to Napoleon, he had no way of knowing what was going on in Moscow. Illya has not been very forthcoming about Moscow on the phone, and Napoleon has been too occupied to realise Illya is covering things up (even to himself, though that is really going to start to slip now for him). If Napoleon were to put some thought into things, he would know that Illya is not okay, but at the moment Napoleon is spiralling so much that it's almost impossible for him to commit that much to Illya when he's trying to handle Delphine and keep himself together.
> 
> Comments are much, much loved and appreciated. I am a very tired masters student at the moment and would love to talk meta in the comments instead of writing up my research. I'm also over at theheirofashandfire at tumblr.


	13. Devil's Advocate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Get ready for things to start seriously going downhill for Illya. He's about to start remembering exactly why Moscow is such a terrible place. Napoleon also isn't doing so hot, but at least he gets to argue with people about feminism.
> 
> Warnings for someone's shitty views on feminism and physical abuse of someone by their superior and the following fallout.

_Sorry I missed your call last night. Everything okay?_

Napoleon tries not to stare at his phone and the text message going unread. He should ignore it, try to actually do some semblance of work.

When it buzzes five minutes later, Napoleon lunges for it immediately.

_Yes, I’m fine._

There’s nothing else. Napoleon stares at the text like there’s a hidden message in it, some secret code that he can decipher if he just stares at the phone for long enough, that maybe the pixels will rearrange themselves to Illya’s face or just take him straight to Moscow where he can look Illya in the eye and never let go of him again.

There’s still nothing else. Napoleon forces himself to put the phone down.

There will be students coming into his office at any moment. He should get out the essays that they wrote and that he somehow managed to mark, clear the table he uses for workshops from its clutter. He should do his damn job.

He sits at his desk, staring at his phone, until someone knocks on his office door.

His workshop class comes in and sits themselves around the table, pulling out books and laptops and far too many pens. Cassie runs in just as the door is swinging shut. “Sorry, sorry, I was all the way on the other side of the building and Lewison just had to ask me questions about the Paris research and then I lost track of time and-”

“Take a breath, Cassie,” Napoleon says. “And have a seat. I’ll assume everyone has done the assignment I set last time, so let’s go around the table and you can each put forwards your essay proposal. Summarise your research and findings for me, and then we’ll discuss them. Everyone already knows my PhD student, Cassie. She’ll wrangle you when I don’t.”

The students start sharing their ideas, going around the table as they talk about the topic he had set, why there were so few well known female historical painters, and then the female painter that they researched. Napoleon stays mostly silent. At one point, as one student is describing the effect of patriarchal control on female artists in Renaissance Italy, he realises that he’s twisting his pen in his fingers, round and around like they’re a lockpick straight from the set on his bedside table. He sets it down abruptly. Cassie glances over at him, but quickly turns her gaze back to the student talking.

“I think you’re taking this all a bit too far.”

Napoleon looks up at the student who just cut off the one talking. He’s smirking, leant back in his chair with a pen dangling from his fingertips. It still has the cap on.

“Look, I’m not saying life wasn’t terrible for women back then,” he says. “By the standards we have today, it was terrible for everyone. And I’m sure that in some instances, yes, there was some sexism in how the women were treated. But you’re all making it out to be this huge thing, this big deciding factor in preventing women from painting. I think that back then, perhaps women just weren’t as good at painting as men were.”

There’s a stunned silence. Cassie is the first to break it. “I think you’re vastly oversimplifying a complicated issue,” she says slowly, like speaking slower will somehow make him understand. “If women weren’t as technically good as most men, then it was because they were denied access to the tutelage or patronage that was more easily afforded to men, because of their status as inferior.”

The student- Sholto, Napoleon remembers eventually- shrugs. “I don’t know, maybe women just didn’t _like_ painting as much? A lot of the female painters stopped when they married; maybe they just decided that they should raise their children properly. Or that they liked caring for their children better than painting.”

He stares around at the room. “What? I’m just playing devil’s advocate, here.”

“You don’t need a fucking advocate,” one of the other students mutters under her breath.

“Not everything comes down to some big conspiracy theory about oppressing women,” Sholto continues with a laugh. “You know, painting was seen as a man’s thing, not a woman’s, so of course there will be fewer women painters that we know of now. It wasn’t their thing.”

“Yeah, that’s literally my point,” another student says. “Women were excluded from the arts because of their status, because they had no financial independence from the men controlling them, because they were not expected or allowed to carry out what many saw as an indulgence at best or a punishable disgrace at worst.”

“And I’m saying that sure, maybe some women were ostracised from the arts, but if there was no oppression or anything, or sexism didn’t exist, then women and men wouldn’t be split evenly fifty-fifty in every profession. There would be a higher proportion of women in some professions, and a higher proportion of men in others. So perhaps there are just more men who gravitate to the arts.”

“Hold the fuck up,” Cassie says. “So your argument is that without sexism things still wouldn’t be equal, and things weren’t equal, so there wasn’t sexism? That’s one hell of a leap.”

Sholto shrugs. “I’m just giving my opinion here,” he says. “That’s allowed, isn’t it?”

“Oh jeez, the free speech argument again,” someone mutters, and it all kicks off from there.

Napoleon can’t breathe. Voices snap around him but he can’t make out any of the words, can’t work out how to mediate the sniping between the students like he should do. Like his damn job requires him to do. Cassie has that bite to her voice that only comes in when she’s a hair’s breadth from snapping and starting to shout, and a few of the other students are starting to raise their voices and argue back.

Sholto is leant back in his chair, this smug expression on his face as he watches the others try to convince him that the discrimination they have to put up on a daily basis actually exists.

It’s the smug little smirk on his face that makes Napoleon finally draw in a sharp breath. He slams his hand down on the table. “Enough!”

The room falls silent. Everyone is staring at him, and Napoleon tries to swallow down the rising anger that’s slowly pulling its way up his throat.

“That is _enough_. You are students of one of the finest universities in this country, and one of the best in the world in its field. I will not have you squabbling like children when we are meant to be in a workshop.”

There’s a snort of laughter from Sholto, and Napoleon rounds on him. “And you. To start with, I haven’t heard you offer a single source or piece of research supporting your frankly sexist and bigoted view. Did you come in here with anything prepared at all, or were you content to just sit back and spout rhetoric that you’d read straight from the Daily Mail?”

“Hey, the point of this is to discuss our opinions,” Sholto says. “So you can’t blame me-”

“Rational opinions that are supported by evidence and research, which you have clearly not taken the time to do or to do properly, otherwise you wouldn’t be here spouting sexist nonsense,” Napoleon snaps. “I can blame you for holding sexist and bigoted views, and I can blame you for not doing the work that I asked you do to. Did you think I was joking? Did you think that I asked you to do this assignment for a laugh, or because I was bored? You are at a prestigious university, and I expect you to put the work in, or you can walk straight out of that door!”

“As for your _opinions_,” Napoleon snarls. “Your argument, if it can even be called that, is more suitable for the Daily Mail than this university. And I can tell exactly what you are thinking. You think that this is _subversive_, that somehow you’re opposing the establishment view and offering some sort of refreshing opinion. You think you’re being radical and edgy, a _real artist_ or some bullshit like that. You’re not. You are being ignorant, and what’s worse, you’re are doing so on purpose.”

Sholto isn’t smirking now. Napoleon gets to his feet and opens his office door. “Get out of my office until you learn how to conduct yourself at this university. Now.”

Sholto gapes at him. “I can say what I like,” he splutters. “God, that’s the whole problem with universities, they say they’re liberal but they curtail free speech at every turn!”

Sholto tries to glare at him, but Napoleon has stared down drug lords and paramilitaries and maniacs with their fingers on the triggers. He was strapped into an electric chair and he didn’t look away as the torturer showed him pictures of his latest works. An upstart university student spouting rhetoric from the Daily Mail’s page three is barely noticeable.

“Free speech means that the government cannot arrest you for your opinions, unless those opinions are inciting violence.” Napoleon pulls his door open wider, eyes not leaving Sholto for a moment. “I, however, am perfectly able and willing to tell you that what you are saying is ignorant, bigoted and sexist, and to tell you that you are not welcome in my office until you rethink your position and decide that evidence and research and being a _decent fucking human being_ is more important than a misguided attempt at being subversive. Now get out of my office.”

Sholto grabs his bag and stalks out of the office without another word. Napoleon shuts the door behind him.

The rest of the group are staring at him, mouths wide open. Napoleon takes a breath, but it does nothing to quiet down the anger that is slowly spiralling into a creeping shame.

What did he just _do_?

He’s meant to be a damn professor. He’s meant to _teach_, not shout at a student and throw them out of his office.

God, he doesn’t deserve any of this. He shouldn’t be allowed to even step foot in these halls, let alone have any influence over students, these kids who have no idea what it’s like to be tortured until even the sound of a switch is agony, to point a gun at someone’s head and pull the trigger because they were in the way.

To drive someone to madness in their grief because of the stupid things he’d done.

He’s grabbing his bag and phone before he even realises he’s moved. “Cassie, finish the workshop,” he gets out, and then he’s tugging the door open and slamming it shut behind him.

There’s a student standing in the corridor, staring at him with his mouth wide open. Napoleon just manages to recognise him as the one he sees in the library occasionally, the one there almost as late as he is.

“Office hours are tomorrow,” he gets out, and then he’s turning and trying to stop his treacherous feet from running down the hall. His phone is in his hand without him even realising he’s reached for it. His thumb hovers over _Peril_ for what feels like hours.

His phone buzzes in his hands with a text. He’s typing an answer before he’s even thinking about it.

_Dinner again sounds good. Tomorrow night?_

0-o-0-o-0

Azra doesn’t even bother knocking as she slips into his office. “How’s the hunt going?” she asks, slumping in one of the chairs on the other side of his desk.

Illya glances up from his laptop and the data he’s currently trying to put together into a semblance of order. “Frustratingly slow,” he replies. “What happened to you? Your hijab is all out of place.”

“Is it?” Azra reaches up and fiddles with it. “I was down at the range and a couple agents up from Kiev obviously hadn’t heard about me.” She gives Illya a look when he arches a brow at her. “Don’t give me that look. I dropped them off at medical afterwards.”

She tugs at her hijab again in frustration. “Let me just fix this.” Illya obligingly turns his back and pretends to be very interested in the book titles lined up on the shelves behind his desk until Azra calls out that she’s finished.

“What do you want?” he asks as he turns back around.

Azra leans back in the chair. “Can’t I just come here for a catch up? We can gossip, paint each other’s nails- hair braiding is out of the question for me, but I bet I could scrounge up a nice wig for you if you want some pampering.”

“You can only paint my nails if it’s the appropriate red, comrade,” Illya replies dryly. “Long live the victorious Motherland.”

Azra snorts a laugh. “I would honestly love to see that,” she says. “But no. I mostly came in here to bother you and to tell you that your little stunt with Zia definitely drew some attention, and I’m not sure if it’s the good kind.”

Illya very carefully doesn’t change his expression. He keeps his breathing the same, keeps looking straight at Azra. None of it seems to matter. Azra studies him for a long moment, and then hums to herself. “I thought so. UNCLE really did change you, didn’t it?” She drums her fingers on the desk, the clacking enough to get on Illya’s nerves after only a few seconds. “They’re thinking about moving Alexi soon,” she says out of nowhere.

“And I don’t see how that has anything to do with me,” Illya snaps.

“They don’t think it’s the safest place to keep him, in the belly of Lubyanka,” Azra continues as if Illya hasn’t said anything. “I don’t know if they mean that for other agents who might have issue with him, or for himself. He was taken off suicide watch a few days after getting shut up here, but they’re probably still worried.”

Illya has to breathe steadily through the echoes of Alexi screaming to kill him. “Stop it, Azra,” he says quietly. “Please.”

Azra studies him intently. “You and I really need to get a drink soon. And I think you need to get drunk enough to actually start talking.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Illya says stiffly. “If you have nothing constructive to offer, then please get out of my office.”

Azra sticks her tongue out at him. “You’re no fun.”

She’s out of his office for barely a minute, during which Illya tries valiantly to concentrate back on unpicking the data on his laptop, before she barges right back in. “Oh for the love of- what is it now?”

There’s some sort of commotion starting outside in the main room that makes Azra look back over her shoulder. “Your puppy has got himself into some sort of scrap,” she says. “You might want to come and rescue him from the wolves.”

Illya curses under his breath as he slams his laptop shut and stalks out of his office to find Zia in the process of crowding up to Dmitri. “What is going on?” he snaps. The room falls silent.

“Just trying to get some answers out of Yuvchenko here,” Gleb drawls from where he is leaning against a desk. Zia moves out of the way, and Illya sees Dmitri’s face.

It’s a mess. There’s dried blood smeared across the left side of his face, some of it from a cut on his temple that still looks fresh and the rest, the blood spilled down his throat and soaked into his shirt collar, from what looks like a nearly broken nose. That side of his face is starting to swell, the skin tight and the dark blues of a nasty bruise beginning to show across his cheek. Both of his eyes are turning black.

“What the hell happened to you?” Illya asks, breaking the silence that’s fallen across the room.

Dmitri visibly swallows and then winces at the movement. “I was coming in and-”

Oleg’s voice snaps like a whip through the air. “Why is everyone standing around gossiping like old grandmothers? Do I need to remind you of what is at stake here?”

Oleg’s reminders are never pleasant, and Illya only just manages to hold himself back from shaking his head like the rest of the agents around him. Oleg finally catches sight of Dmitri’s face. His expression turns thunderous.

“_What is this_?”

He storms across to Dmitri. “How dare you come in here looking like this? What sort of agent do you think you are?”

“Sir, I can explain-”

“I don’t want to hear a word out of your fucking mouth,” Oleg snarls. “I took a gamble on you. I pulled you out of the gutter after your degenerate father screwed this country over and left you behind in the process, I put time and effort into making sure you got here and got you this chance that you should be so damn grateful for. You do not come in here looking like this, like someone worked you over in a back alley. You do not dare to show your ungratefulness for all the chances I have given you in this manner.”

“Sir-”

The sound of the slap echoes throughout the room. Illya starts forwards, only to be held back by Azra’s vice-like grip on his arm. Dmitri trembles as Oleg grabs his collar, flinching back away from him. Oleg tightens his grip, stopping him from stepping back as he snarls in his face. “If you drag yourself in here one more time with as much as a scratch on you, then I will personally deliver you to Sokolov and let him send you after the Pakhan with nothing more than a rusted pocketknife. Do you understand?”

Dmitri is silent for a moment too long, and room echoes again with another slap. “_Do you understand?”_

“Yes, Sir,” Dmitri says tonelessly.

Oleg hauls him over to Illya and all but throws him at Illya’s feet. Illya manages to catch Dmitri just before he hits the floor, his balance obviously non-existent, and sets him back on his feet. “Clean up your messes, Kuryakin,” Oleg snarls. “And keep him in line. Or I’ll damn well make sure someone else does by whatever means necessary.”

Oleg doesn’t wait for a reply. The door slams shut behind him, and the room is silent.

Illya tries to take a breath. “My office,” he tells Dmitri. “Now. Someone fetch the first aid kit from the kitchen.”

Nobody moves. “_Now_,” Illya growls, and the rest of the agents scurry into action. Dmitri staggers past him and throws open his office door. Illya watches him slump into one of the chairs out of the corner of his eye, but waits outside until Azra hands him the first aid kit and a handful of damp towels.

“Take your time,” she says, her voice soft. She glances past him to Dmitri’s slumped figure. “Be gentle.”

Illya snatches the kit from her, heads into his office and slams the door shut behind him.

It’s quiet in there, the only sounds Dmitri’s ragged breathing. Dmitri doesn’t look up from the floor as Illya drops the first aid kit onto his lap and leans back against the far wall. “What happened.”

Dmitri unzips the kit with hands that are trembling ever so slightly. “I walk into work sometimes,” he says, eyes fixed on the kit as he pulls out a gauze pad and presses it to the cut on his temple. “When the Metro is too…sometimes I walk.” Pressing the gauze to his head with one hand, he starts tentatively wiping at the dried blood down his throat with the other. “There were three men assaulting a fourth down an alley. I stepped in.”

“You got all this from stopping, what, a mugging?” Illya snaps. “You are an SVR agent, you should be able to disable ten people with nothing but your own hands.”

“I wasn’t going to kill them,” Dmitri mutters to the first aid kit. “And I didn’t want to…lose control. I could have killed them. If I had.”

“So you let them beat you up instead? Christ, Dmitri. What the hell were you thinking?”

“I can take it easier than a civilian,” Dmitri replies, still staring straight at the kit. The towel in his hand is slowly turning red, but he’s been cleaning the same spot on his neck for the past minute and doesn’t seem to realise.

“Doesn’t mean you should,” Illya snaps. “This was reckless and irresponsible, not to mention dangerous. What if one of them had been carrying a weapon and in your haste to not _lose control_ you didn’t see it until the knife was buried in your gut? What if they’d had friends? Why would you even think that this was a rational decision?”

“_Because_ _it wasn’t a mugging.”_

Dmitri is staring up at him now through bruised eyes. “It wasn’t a mugging! It was three homophobic guys beating up a fourth guy because he had dared to hold another man’s hand! Why shouldn’t I step in?”

Illya pushes himself away from the wall. “Why?” he snarls. “Because you are an agent of the SVR and you do not step in to stop random assaults on the street! The best case scenario, the very best, is this one right now. You could have been seriously injured and left for dead in the street, and then I would have had to clean up your body and explain to Oleg how one of his agents died in an alleyway of my own damn city. Or you could have all been arrested, and I would be down at Petrovka Street explaining to Baranov why I was there to bail out you, someone who is meant to be part of one of the most respected and feared agencies in the _entire world_!”

Dmitri is trembling now, but Illya is too angry now to hold onto that observation. He can barely breathe past the anger wrapping itself around its bones at Dmitri’s sheer stupidity, at how he could have gotten himself killed and Illya wouldn’t have been able to do a single thing about it.

Dmitri mutters something into his lap.

“Speak up,” Illya snarls.

“The police should have been there anyway,” Dmitri says, still staring down at the first aid kit in his lap, the bloodied towel clutched uselessly in his hand.

“_Listen to me._”

Illya’s voice cracks like a whip through his office. “This is what would have happened. You would have been arrested. They would have taken your fingerprints. They would have a photograph of your face. It would have alerted us here, eventually. If you were lucky, if you were _insanely lucky_, I would have been told and gotten there before anyone else. If someone else had come for you, half of them would have let you rot in jail for a while to teach you a lesson. The other half would have delighted in teaching you another sort of lesson.”

“And then? Then you come back here and shoulder your punishment like you should. Only your face is in the system now. People at Petrovka Street will recognise you, and they will work out eventually that you are SVR. How long do you think that information will be kept private? How long before someone sells it to the highest bidder? Did you think of that, Dmitri?”

Dmitri is silent.

“Did you?”

“No, Sir,” Dmitri murmurs.

“No, you did not. You are an _agent_, Dmitri. You have to start thinking like one. Or else one day you’ll be undercover in some distant country, with no idea that your cover was blown right in this city, and you won’t even know until there is a gun pointed to the back of your head. If you’re lucky, you will be dead.”

Dmitri is trembling. Illya forces himself to unclench his fists. It doesn’t help.

“_Do you hear me?_” he snarls.

“Yes, Sir,” Dmitri murmurs.

“I am not here to watch you get into trouble again and again because you can’t think one _single_ step ahead,” Illya snarls. He’s pacing now, unable to stay still for a moment longer. Dmitri is staring at the kit in his lap. “And I am not here to watch you get yourself killed! Do you understand?”

Dmitri is silent, and Illya spins towards him. “_Do I make myself clear?_”

Dmitri flinches.

Everything drains from Illya.

He is left cold, staring at Dmitri. Dmitri, with his head turned away, eyes squeezed shut as he braces himself. The first aid kit slowly slides from his lap and spills out across the floor. He’s shaking, body pressed back into the chair as far as it will let him.

The only sounds are his ragged breathing.

Illya stumbles a step back. He finally manages to take a breath, heaving the air into his lungs. It does nothing to dispel the horror and the guilt that is rushing through his frame, sending his hands trembling in some horrific parody of the way Dmitri’s body shakes, because _god_, is he no better than all those monsters who stalk these halls?

What has this place made him into?

“Dmitri,” he says hoarsely, the name catching in his throat. “Dmitri.”

Dmitri slowly drops his hand down from where he’d been covering his face and opens his eyes. He doesn’t move. Illya is beside him before he even realises he’s moved, crouching down beside the chair. “Dmitri, look at me. Please.”

Dmitri slowly turns his head to look at Illya, his ragged breaths unbearably loud. “Take a deep breath,” Illya murmurs. “Slow your breathing. Can I touch you?”

For a long few seconds Dmitri just stares at him, and Illya thinks he might throw up until Dmitri gives a jerky nod. He gently places one hand on Dmitri’s leg, trying to give him some semblance of grounding. “Take a deep breath,” he says softly. “And another. There you go.”

He waits until Dmitri isn’t gasping for air, gently rubbing his leg in time with his breathing, before saying anything else. “Listen to me, Dmitri,” he says gently, looking up at him from where he’s crouched on the floor. “Listen. I will not hurt you. I will never hurt you. I will do my best to make sure that nobody outside that door hurts you. And I am sorry, I am so, so sorry, for making you think that I might.”

Dmitri is staring at him, not saying a word. Illya grips the back of his neck. “Dmitri. I promise you that I will never do anything to hurt you.”

Dmitri is still staring at him, like he’s trying to search for something in his face. “We are spies,” he says eventually, his voice barely more than a whisper. “We should not make promises.”

Illya huffs a surprised laugh, and the weight pressing down on his shoulders seems to lift, just a little. “I’ll make an exception,” he says. “Just this once.”

Dmitri finally glances away from him. Blood is still smeared across his face and neck, and his cheek is rapidly turning a bright purple. Illya pulls an ice pack out of the discarded first aid kit, snapping it to activate it. “Put this on your face,” he says, keeping his voice soft even through the wholly different type of anger trying to course through him, suffused with guilt and the need for a stiff drink.

There are a lot of things he could say, but none of them matter right now. Instead, he takes one of the damp towels and starts to clean the dried blood from Dmitri’s neck. His pulse jumps under his touch.

He gets about halfway through before he finally notices the fine tremors running through Dmitri’s body. He looks up to see his eyes are wet, and he’s biting furiously at his lip as he stares straight ahead.

Illya just keeps wiping the dried blood from his neck. When he’s finally finished, he gently pushes Dmitri onto the small sofa in the corner of his office. Dmitri is barely able to toe off his shoes before his eyes are drifting shut. “I’ll wake you in a few hours, make sure you aren’t concussed,” Illya says softly.

He pulls his coat from its hook and gently drapes it over Dmitri’s form. Dmitri doesn’t move, save for the steady rise and fall of his chest.

Illya locks the office door behind him, and heads straight for Azra. “All cleaned up?” she asks as he approaches. She looks up at him, and the smile drops straight from her face.

Illya clears his throat. “I really need that drink now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The argument that Sholto (it is a real name, I named that character after someone I knew in high school. Infer what you like about what I thought of him from this) puts forwards is an argument that I have actually had with someone before- a very intelligent person who I normally got on with very well. It was originally about women in comedy, I was trying to convince them that there was sexism in comedy, and their argument was that because men and women wouldn't be equally split across all jobs if there was no sexism, the fact that there were fewer women in comedy meant that there was no sexism. So yeah. At the time, I was too incensed to come up with a coherent enough response, so I suppose that scene was my way of winning the argument in my head.
> 
> Moscow is awful, and Illya has been repressing that ever since he arrived, because to confront it would be too much. But he is starting to not have much of a choice. And he's starting to realise that Dmitri is in a really fucking precarious position.
> 
> As always, comments are much much loved and appreciated.


	14. Vodka

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that it's been a while! I keep coming home intending to put up a chapter and then by the time the evening comes round I forget- I am juggling quite a lot on my plate with chemistry and my masters and everything.
> 
> It's time for the time-honoured tradition amongst writers: get your characters drunk so you can stop intricately weaving subtext into everything and just make them talk about their damn feelings. Warnings for alcohol consumption by Illya, though it's not excessive (for a Russian). Also, I am very happy that people are getting attached to Dmitri, I am also very attached to him and already have some oneshot ideas about him (no spoilers though). Napoleon also isn't doing so well, and Delphine is starting to press her agenda...

Azra sets the bottle down right in front of Illya. “It’s only about ten in the morning, but I think this is appropriate. Now talk.”

Illya unscrews the lid and splashes a good few fingers into the glass. He downs it instantly, grimacing at the burn, and pours himself some more. “He thought I was going to hit him,” he says into the bottom of his glass. “He thought…am I as bad as those bullies? As Gleb? Oleg? He flinched from me, Azra. He thought I was going to hit him and he didn’t try to block me, or get out of the way. He _flinched_.”

Azra pours herself a glass. “Did you?” she asks.

Illya stares at her. “_No_,” he gets out. “God, no, I would _never_.”

Azra nods. “Then you have your answer then. For your peace of mind, no, you’re nothing like Gleb, or the others. Especially not now.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” Illya asks. He pours himself another few fingers of vodka but manages to resist the urge to down the entire glass in one go. He counts that as an improvement.

“Oh, you know exactly what it means.” Azra pushes the ice around in her glass with one finger. “UNCLE did you a world of good. Or getting regular sex, with the literal Adonis that is your husband.”

Illya glares at her. “It’s true,” Azra says. “You are different now. But the longer you spend here, the harder it is. I can see it. You need to be careful, Illya.”

“Of what?” Illya snaps. He doesn’t mean to. But then he never meant to do a lot of things that happened anyway.

“If you’re replying like that, then I don’t think I need to answer,” Azra says steadily. “But I’d hate to see this place chew you up and spit you out like it did last time.”

“You would be happy to see me go,” Illya says, but he knows that Azra can tell that he doesn’t mean it.

“Illya. I’ll be truthful to you, because after everything the two of us have done to each other I think we deserve that at least.” Azra takes a gulp of her drink, barely making a face as the neat vodka goes down. “In the months before Vinciguerra and your supposed defection- which is bullshit by the way, you never defected, UNCLE is an international organisation- I was certain that before the year was out I was going to have to go to your funeral.”

Illya stares at her. It was so long ago, now. And yet if he thinks for a moment, it feels like all he would have to do is take a step to the side and he would be back there, Oleg’s prodigy, everyone in Lubyanka flinching from him and whispers following wherever he walked. It had been mission after endless mission, barely enough time to debrief before he was on another plane.

He doesn’t really remember expecting to die. But then he doesn’t remember much expectation of living, either. He had nothing much beyond the next mission, and how to survive that.

A wry smile plays out over Azra’s face, but it’s tinged with what Illya can only describe as the opposite of nostalgia. “You were the best. We all knew you were the best, which is why everyone moved around you like you might kill them from a wrong look. But your missions were getting worse. There were a few where I thought you were going to come back here in a body bag, and there were a few where you almost did.”

“I know, I remember Baghdad,” Illya mutters.

“And Hong Kong, and Somalia, and Guatemala,” Azra adds. “I saw the mission reports. Oleg should have given you leave, let you recuperate after each mission even if you weren’t nearly blown up or stabbed. But he kept going.”

Illya can’t find words to put forwards on his tongue, and Azra continues. “I was sure that you would be dead within a year,” she says. “And then…a botched mission in Berlin, and before we know it you’re in Italy and there are rumours of the CIA and WMDs. And then you just don’t come back. We hear of UNCLE, and we spend months tiptoeing around Oleg.”

She tips her vodka glass to the side, watching the vodka nearly slip over the rim. “You went to UNCLE. We started hearing stories, and we hardly believed some of them until the evidence came through. For a while I was jealous, and then…I knew you were living a better life than you had here. I knew you had something better.”

She takes another sip of vodka. “And then everything happened, and you come walking back into Lubyanka. The reasons Oleg gave for you being here are bullshit. Even your own reasons are bullshit.” She pours more vodka into his glass. “Why are you really here, Illya?”

“I owed Oleg a favour,” Illya says sharply. “And you know exactly why I owe Oleg a favour. You wouldn’t repay me when I called, so I had to turn to him.”

“I couldn’t repay your favour, and there’s a difference. I didn’t know most of what Oleg knew. And I know perfectly well that there were a hundred different ways you could repay that favour without ending up in Lubyanka. Why are you really here?”

Illya stares at the table, at the condensation slowly making its way down the side of his glass to the wood. When he lifts his glass up, there’s a perfect ring of cold water left behind. He runs a finger through it, dragging it across the table.

“I need to know I can go back on my own.”

Azra stares at him, snapping her fingers in front of his face when he doesn’t say anything else. “What does that mean? I’m not a mind reader, Illya, and you’ve always been damn impenetrable. Tell me what you mean.”

Her sharp tone is completely at odds with the way she’s looking at him, this odd mixture of sympathy and concern and edges of sharpness that never go away anymore. It’s unnerving, and it’s enough for Illya to open his mouth and start talking.

“Everything I’ve done, ever since Vinciguerra, I’ve done for Napoleon. Or Napoleon has been a part of it. Everything. Staying alive on missions? I dragged myself out of torturer’s dens or through miles of jungle because Napoleon needed me. Staying alive outside of missions? Napoleon again. Even before we ended up together, which was inevitable from the moment he dragged me out of that harbour in Italy instead of leaving me behind, he grounded me. He was the only one, for a long time, who could talk me down when I needed it, or who kept me going when this place made my job at UNCLE almost impossible.”

“I am certain that you have done the same for him.”

Illya shrugs, taking another swallow of vodka. “It’s not the same. Towards the end, everyone always used to joke that Napoleon would have to haul me out of there, but it was true. If he hadn’t been out, if he hadn’t been there on the other side when I finally tried to leave, then I know that I wouldn’t have made it.”

Azra grimaces. “You don’t know that for certain.”

Illya can feel a twisted smile stretching his lips. “This place makes you into a lot of things. If you get far enough, it makes you into a survivor. And then you don’t know how to do anything but keep doing what has kept you alive so far. I would have kept going, because I didn’t know how else to function. But then Napoleon happened.”

“He left,” Azra says. She tops up her own glass. “And you followed.”

Illya nods, swallowing another mouthful of vodka. “I did. How could I not?” He laughs bitterly. “And then what? What am I after that? Napoleon, he has his job and his art and everything that comes with being one of the most highly respected art history professors in the Cortauld. Me? I know fifteen ways to incapacitate someone without making a sound.”

“You know a lot more than that,” Azra says. “No matter what Oleg thinks of you, he never would have brought you back here unless he knew you could do the job, and do it better than anyone else in that building.”

“I was good at my job,” Illya mutters. He’s Russian, he can hold his vodka, but the world is just beginning to take on that mild haze that comes after a few drinks. “I was very good at my job. But everything I did, it involved Napoleon. Any important decision, and there was Napoleon. I don’t know where I end and where he begins.” He swallows another gulp of vodka. “I don’t know. But I need to know I can do this without him. That I can go here, and go back, without him.”

“And?” Azra asks. “Can you?”

Illya just drains his glass.

Azra hums, taking a more measured sip of her own vodka. “Why did you leave?” she asks eventually. “If you were so good at your job, which I know you were. What made you walk away?”

“I told you,” Illya replies. “Napoleon. He was there, he was waiting for me to get out.”

“You see, I don’t really believe that,” Azra says. “Not fully. I’m well aware of how easily spies become co-dependent, but even you and Napoleon, even the two of you, don’t live exclusively for each other. If you did, I don’t think the two of you would be alive right now, let alone still married.” She tops up his glass. “Why did you leave, Illya? What made you finally walk away?”

Illya can’t look up from his glass. He pushes it around the table, watching the trail of condensation it leaves behind.

“I didn’t want to die.”

It’s like the words have been ripped straight out of him. There’s a silence left in its wake filled only by the sound of the bar around them, the clink of glasses and the low murmur of people going about their lives.

“I didn’t want to die,” he says again, and the words still cut his mouth the second time. “I…you know this life, Azra. You know how we end up. And this place…it makes you survivors, but you learn soon enough that the job is everything. That you will die in the job. If you’re very good at it then you will last a long time, but you will die in this job. And…”

“You didn’t want to die to this job,” Azra finishes for him. She fills his glass up again.

Illya is horrifies to find his eyes hot and prickling. “I _had_ something,” he gets out. “I had something more than the job. And I wanted…I wanted it. I wanted something other than knowing it would end with a bullet in a back alley in some godforsaken country.”

He can’t find anymore words. “Fuck,” he gets out, pressing the heels of his hands into his eyes until he can pretend that the stinging is just from that.

Azra is quiet until Illya manages to take a breath and drop his hands away from his eyes. “So I left. And I managed it. It was the worst few months I’ve been through, straight after I left, but Napoleon was there and Gaby, and we had all known that the first months would be the hardest. It got better. It got easier. And then-”

“Alexi,” Azra finishes for him.

“Maybe it was always going to fall apart. Maybe Alexi was just the catalyst. It wasn’t right before…before Alexi, it wasn’t right. But Alexi…”

Illya drains his glass. “He screamed at me to kill him, you know. At the end. He was being dragged away and he begged me to shoot him.” He rubs at his eyes again, squeezing them shut until he feels like he’s scraped back an ounce of control.

“I don’t think Alexi went to London with any plan to come back,” Azra says softly. “One way or another. It’s not your fault, what he did.”

“Does it matter?” Illya asks. “He did it. And I nearly killed him for it.”

He can still remember that moment with perfect clarity. Alexi screaming at him, Napoleon’s blood slick under his hands. Napoleon gently curling one hand around his wrist, and all of the anger leaching out of him with that touch.

He swallows down another gulp of vodka. “What if that’s me?” he asks quietly. “There were so many times, during UNCLE, where Napoleon was in danger or I nearly lost him, and I knew that I would burn the world down if I did. I’d never stopped to consider what that really meant.”

“Until Alexi.”

Illya rubs the back of his hand across his eyes. “Until Alexi,” he murmurs. “Until I saw him go mad and realised that it could be me. That it could so easily be me. And…I don’t know what to do.”

He heaves a breath, digging the heels of his hands into his eyes. “I don’t know what to do,” he gets out. “I don’t…Alexi was right. We don’t get to walk away. I don’t get to go on like one wrong step won’t drive me to try and burn the world down.” He heaves another breath in. “I don’t know, Azra. I just…don’t know.”

Azra sits back. “Give me a moment. It’s a lot to take in.” She sips at her vodka. “So you won’t go see Alexi because, what, you think he’ll confirm it? That you would do what he did if something happened to your husband?”

Illya stays silent, which is enough for Azra. She drains her glass. “Right. Well. I have precisely zero answers for you, but then you didn’t ask me here to give you answers, you asked me here because two people is the right number for a bottle of vodka. So. We’re going to finish this bottle, and then sit in this bar until you’re sober enough to get past Oleg. When the bartender comes over and politely asks us to buy something if we’re going to stay I’ll threaten him- only lightly, I do actually like this place- and get him to order us some food to help you sober up. And then we’ll go back, you’ll wake Dmitri up to check he doesn’t have a concussion and send him off home, and you’ll pretend to do work for the rest of the day until you can leave.”

“And then?” Illya asks. He stares at the table. He’d quite like to pillow his head in his arms on it, but he feels like that might be too pathetic, even for him being admittedly fairly drunk by now. And Azra would definitely take a picture of him for blackmail purposes.

“Then?” Azra drains her glass and puts it down with a decisive _thunk_. “Then you do your best to make sure Dmitri doesn’t get himself into any more trouble than he already is. You try and help him as much as you can in the time that you have. And you find that leak, so you can go home.” She pushes his glass towards him. “Now finish your vodka like a good Russian, and I’ll get you some ponchikis before we have to go.”

Illya drains his glass.

0-o-0-o-0

_Peril_ stares up at him in crisp black text against the background of his phone. Delphine, coffee paused halfway to her lips in a way that is elegant yet completely effortless, hums. “The husband?” she asks. “Is it anything urgent?”

Napoleon locks his phone with a quiet click. “No, just checking in,” he says.

“Reply if you would like,” Delphine says. “We’re not in a restaurant now. You won’t get stabbed with the fish knife for answering your phone here.”

“Don’t be crude,” Napoleon replies. “The maître d’ would certainly use the oyster knife. Much more painful.”

Delphine laughs, and it sounds exquisite in this little coffee shop on a dreary day in London. People turn their heads to look at her. Delphine gives Napoleon a sly look when she’s sees them staring, tossing her hair over her shoulder in that way that has never failed to keep people staring before.

“Those poor people,” she whispers, leaning across the table and gently grasping Napoleon’s hand. “They look rather like parched survivors stranded in a desert, convinced that they have seen water. More than half of them are looking at you, you know.”

“Ah, but is it merely a mirage?” Napoleon asks.

He’s sure that he kept the bitterness out of his voice, but Delphine frowns. The grip on his hand tightens. “Prado,” she says. Her frown disappears, replaced with a smile just the right side of teasing. “A mirage is the precise opposite of what I would call you. When have you ever been anything other than _the real deal_, as you would say?”

Napoleon thinks of sitting in UNCLE headquarters, paralysed by indecision. Unable to move a muscle to do something that saved his husband. All of the eyes on him, expecting him to pull off a miracle because _he’s Napoleon Solo, that’s what he does_. “You’d be surprised,” he says.

Delphine hums. “It has been a long time, and you have changed, _mon cher_. But you are not a different person.” She sits back and takes a sip of her coffee. “Besides, I don’t take too kindly to your insinuation that I am merely a mirage as well. And I’m sure you remember what I do to people that offend me.”

Napoleon just sips at his own coffee. He does.

But those people, they were in the wrong. They had screwed up. If Delphine hadn’t dealt with them, then they would have done something worse at some other point down the line. It was justified.

“Growing bored of London yet?” Napoleon asks. He presses his hands into the sides of his coffee mug until the lingering warmth of the latte slowly brings the background noise of the café back.

Delphine doesn’t seem to notice the change of subject, or if she does, she indulges him. “Oh, there are still many things here that can entertain me. It may not be Paris, or Milan during fashion week, but it’ll do for now.” She hums. “Let’s just say that there are things in the work.”

“Oh?” Napoleon asks. His fingers twitch. “Anything interesting? I’ll admit I haven’t heard much of your works in the past few years.”

“Then you are not asking the right people,” Delphine says slyly. “I’ve been around. And you should know, Prado, even if you are supposedly out of the picture. There’s always something interesting going on if you look hard enough for it.”

“Supposedly?” Napoleon asks. “What is that supposed to mean?”

“Oh, Prado, there’s no need to play coy anymore,” Delphine says. “I’m sure it must be hard for you, so many years under the thumb of one agency or another, squabbling like children over a toy. But from what you’ve told me, that’s all over now. You’re perfectly free to do what you like now.”

“Am I?” Napoleon can’t help but ask.

“If you’re not, then there are things I can do to help,” Delphine says, sipping at her coffee. “Who was it at the CIA who gave you such trouble. Sanders, wasn’t it? I’ve made more troublesome people…disappear, shall we say, before.”

“You’ve been doing your research,” Napoleon says, eyeing her over his coffee cup as he raises it to his lips. “Found something to occupy your time here, then?”

“Oh, don’t be so bitter,” Delphine says. “You knew I would. I’m sure you did the same.”

Napoleon isn’t quick enough to school his expression. He tries to hide behind his coffee cup, but Delphine is far too good for that. “Oh, Prado,” she says. “_Mon cher._ Do not worry yourself about it. You haven’t lost your edge, it has merely been dulled down by those brutes at the CIA, all those years spent trying desperately to save the world when it really doesn’t want to be saved. It won’t be too long before you remember how it all really works.” Her smile turns sharp. “Don’t you remember how much more fun it was when you weren’t trying to champion a cause that has been dead on its feet since before we were born?”

Trying to save the world. Yes, that was what he’d spent nearly a decade of his life trying to do.

“I know that look,” Delphine says. “Where did it get you, Prado? You were so full of life when I knew you, willing to dive off a cliff at the mere chance of treasure in the waters below. We ran across Europe together and the euphoria never faded. And now you sit in London, wings clipped by so many years being controlled by people who never saw your true nature, never knew what _potential_ you had.” She reaches out for his hand again. “I do not blame you. The circumstances were beyond your control. But it is over now, and I have found you.”

“But…Illya.”

Delphine’s face is the perfect example of sympathy. “Oh, Prado.”

“He’ll come back,” Napoleon says. His voice sounds strange in his own ears.

“I’m sure he will,” Delphine murmurs. “Eventually. But he sounds busy, _non_? There is some boy, I heard?”

“You’ve been doing your research,” Napoleon mutters again.

Delphine inclines her head. “As I should have done. Dmitri Yuvchenko is an interesting character. Did you know that his father was arrested? Officially it was for fraud, but there are whispers, as there always are. It didn’t take long for me to hear some of the nastier ones. And more rumours have followed Dmitri Yuvchenko as he grew up. He apparently nearly beat another boy to death at school. Some misunderstanding that spiralled out of control, as I was told.”

She stares intently at him for a long moment. “He is all the way in Moscow, Prado. And you are here, with me. If you are worried about being rusty, then it is little matter. I am sure that the finer points will all come back quickly to you, _mon cher_, when you’re back.”

“When I’m back?” Napoleon echoes. No, he can’t even think of that. Delphine doesn’t know the first thing about him now. It’s been two decades since he last saw her, since he watched her walk away down Las Ramblas and blend back into the crowd. It’s been two decades of the CIA and UNCLE, Waverly and Gaby and Illya, his beloved Illya, and he’s so far…

The weight of lockpicks are reassuring in his hands, late at night when he wakes from dreams of glittering ballrooms and long hallways filled with art. The name _Prado_ is stiff from age and disuse but is easy, easier to lift that all that comes with _Napoleon Solo_.

_What else do you have to go back to?_

A set of lockpicks and the hands to use them, an itch in his fingers that he can only remember being able to truly scratch as a distant memory.

The other way lies Markos bleeding out on the floor before he ever manages to reach the partner that they just kill anyway, Alexi screaming Illya’s name in grief. The blink of a cursor at the ragged end of a page that won’t ever get written.

His phone chimes. It takes an age for him to tear his gaze away from Delphine, to see his phone cheerfully reminding him that he has a lecture to give in fifteen minutes. “I have to go,” he says. “But…we should have dinner again.”

“Of course,” Delphine says. She reaches out and squeezes his hand. “You’re still under there, Prado. I can see it. You just need to grow your wings back out and it will be like you never left us.”

Napoleon’s feet carry him back to the Institute on their own. His head is far from London, roaming the streets of Europe with the familiar weight of lockpicks in his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Illya. He's still twisted up about leaving UNCLE and it's going to take him some time to sort through that, and work out what his motivations are separate to Napoleon's. He probably didn't do every single thing for Napoleon, or else their relationship would never have worked to the point that they were able to get married and retire together, etc, but that's how he sees it right now. What Illya really needs right now is to go and see Alexi, but he's not in the right state of mind to even think about it. Yet.
> 
> Yep, Napoleon really is slipping. You'll have to wait and see whether he follows through on Delphine's offer, there is still a lot to play out (a couple of people have picked up on that student that keeps appearing, and yes, they will be explained soon). I don't really see Delphine as a villain here. She's trying to persuade Napoleon to come back to the thief life with her, yes, but from her point of view the Napoleon she sees now is so so different from the one she knew that it's just obviously an act- a very well ingrained act, but one nonetheless. So she thinks she's doing him a favour, giving him a helping hand. And then he'll owe her a favour, which works well for her. She has been really interesting to write.
> 
> As always, kudos and especially comments are so so loved, I absolutely love knowing people are reading and enjoying my work, and I will always very happily talk fandom or meta down in the comments!


	15. René

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oof, sorry for the wait again. Life is hella busy at the moment, and it isn't likely to let up until we hit the summer and I've finished uni (oh god that's a terrifying thought). But here's another chapter! Some of both of the boys this time, and things are beginning to just about start to change.

“My point isn’t that we shouldn’t be representing our national interest, that is the point of our organisation. My _point_ is that our national interest should expand beyond our borders. Whether or not the people in this building like globalisation or not, the fact is that it’s happening, and we shouldn’t ignore it. We shouldn’t ignore the fact that we can help a lot of people.”

“And I’m not disagreeing with you. What I’m saying- turn left here and take the stairs up- what I’m saying is that if you keep your head down and keep going, then you will get to a point in a few years where you can actually make those changes. But if you run your mouth now, then you’ll never manage to get to that point and you won’t be able to do anything.”

Illya can see from the set of Dmitri’s shoulders as he heads up the stairs in front of him that he’s just building up to another argument. They only make it halfway up before Dmitri pauses. “But then isn’t that a betrayal of what you stand for? If you have a chance to do something and do nothing, then you’re the one at fault.”

Illya hums. “Firstly, you’re overlooking circumstance. If a captive has a chance to kill a captor, should they do it? The answer is more complicated than yes or no, and more complicated than morals. Would reprisals be levied by other captors? Would they be against this captive, or other captives who haven’t done anything? What chance is there of success? Would there be a higher chance of success if this attempt was carried out at a later date or under different circumstances?” He nudges Dmitri to the right, jimmying open that fire door that has never shut right. “Everything tends to be more complicated than it is at the outset. You’re going to have to learn to evaluate these potential consequences, and without even thinking about it, if you’re going to come out of any high-pressure situation.”

“And secondly?” Dmitri asks, ducking through the door. “You seemed like you had a second argument.”

Illya pauses. “Secondly, you have to decide how much fault you’re willing to take before it’s too much,” he says quietly. “How much you are willing to- how did you put it, _betray yourself_, to get to a point where you can actually make a difference.”

Dmitri is silent as they head down a corridor and through another door. “Sorry,” he says eventually, just as Illya leads him out onto the walkway.

Illya leans against the railing. “What are you apologising for?”

“I-” Dmitri colours, and glances down. “I’m not sure.”

“Then make sure, before you say anything,” Illya replies. He turns and looks out across the railing, at the people scurrying around below them. “Whoever thought to put a shopping centre in Lubyanka was an idiot.”

“Oh.” Dmitri is staring out at the crowd now, watching the people far down below come and go, trailing bags behind them. “I didn’t know you could get up here.”

“It’s an old maintenance walkway from when the lights were installed. Nobody really uses it.” Illya watches as a child breaks away from their parent and makes a run for the toy store. “Oleg used to bring me up here sometimes.”

He’d always gone on about the SVR when up here, how important their work was, how vital it was to stay hidden in the shadows away from the mindless civilians below. How they were getting pushed back into the corners of Lubyanka just like how Russia was being pushed back from the global stage, how if he had his way he would tear out this entire shopping centre and restore their organisation to full glory.

Illya can still remember some of the speeches he’d given, standing up here and looking down at the people below like he would rather crush them than talk to any of them. He could still repeat some of them, if he thinks back hard enough.

He stays silent. Beside him, Dmitri is leaning on the railing, watching the crowds come and go. “I think that child just stole a toy from the store,” he says after a few seconds. “Look, he has something stuffed up his jumper.”

They both watch as the mother says something they’re too far away to hear, and then drags the child back into the store and out of sight. Dmitri huffs a laugh. “Poor kid.” He watches the kid for a few more minutes. Illya can see him tracing his route through the store. “What do you think they’re thinking?” he murmurs eventually. “Surely they must know that they are in the same building as the SVR.”

“I think most people ignore it,” Illya says carefully. “Pretend it isn’t here. Pretend that they don’t know we’re here watching them.” He watches the movement of the crowds for a few moments. “It’s how it’s always been. You’re too young to remember the Soviet Union, but I was a child during the end of it, and I can remember the last few years. Most people still haven’t let go of that mentality.” That feeling of constantly looking over their shoulder, watching everything that they say in case someone is listening. That’s how his father had been taken down, in the end. Their neighbours had heard him make a comment in their living room as the Soviet Union had collapsed around them. Two weeks later and he was dragged out of their home in the middle of the night.

“Well, it’s not like we’re living in a much better country when it comes to monitoring our citizens,” Dmitri mutters.

“My god,” Illya mutters under his breath. He turns to face Dmitri. “What have I told you about being careful? Especially in this building. Saying that the walls have ears is an understatement.”

“I’m right, though,” Dmitri says belligerently. “We could be doing so much _better_.”

“And mouthing off about it right now is not going to help you make anything better,” Illya says, trying to refrain from snapping when he’s saying this for the tenth time. “We’ve been over this. Repeatedly.”

“And I know you keep telling me to keep my head down, not run my mouth right now, wait until I’m in a position to actually implement change, but I can’t do that.” Dmitri grips the railing, his knuckles white. “It’s not _right_.”

“It’s the way things are,” Illya says pointedly. “You won’t make anything better if you’re kicked out in a few months for pushing too much and going too far. Best case scenario, you’d just end up back in the spetsnaz, where you have even less room to change anything.”

Dmitri is gritting his teeth. Illya waits to see if he’ll swallow his argument or not. Predictably, it’s only a few moments before he’s opening his mouth again.

“But it can be better,” he gets out. “And I know you know that. We can do _better_.”

“Ah.” Illya had been wondering when this would come up. “UNCLE?”

Dmitri turns to him. “Exactly! You did good there, I know you did. I’ve heard the stories about what you and Solo managed to pull off, how you disregarded mission parameters to do the right thing, or stayed in an unwinnable situation to try and do the best you could. Why can’t we do the same here?”

“Because UNCLE is an international agency that doesn’t serve any one nation’s interests?” Illya replies. He shakes his head. “And it was never, _ever_, as simple as the stories made it out to be. We still had to make horrible decisions, or sacrifice one objective for another, often making that decision in the heat of the moment with no time to think it through.” He stares down at the crowds beneath them, following the path of two teenagers as they head into a store. It’s just enough to hold off the smell of smoke that is slowly creeping into the edges of his vision.

“It’s never that easy, Dmitri,” he says eventually.

“It should be,” Dmitri says back, his voice hot. “Shouldn’t that be what we’re doing? Making things easier, making them better? I’m not naïve. I spent six years in the spetsnaz, I know how awful this job can be. But we could make things _better_.”

“You sound naïve right now,” Illya says. He runs a hand down his face. “I don’t know how to spell it out in simpler terms. This job isn’t easy, and it isn’t simple. Even the things I did at UNCLE. And the best way you can make changes is to keep your head down until you reach a point where you can _actually_ make changes. Or you’re going to be out on the streets.”

“I’m twenty-three, I’m not a child,” Dmitri snaps. “You don’t have to treat me like one.”

“Oh, dear god, you’re only twenty-three.” Illya resists the urge to groan or bury his head in his hands. He feels old.

“Very funny,” Dmitri snaps. “Doesn’t mean I’m wrong.”

Illya lets out a breath. “Answer me truthfully, Dmitri,” he says. “Is this what you want to do?”

Dmitri is silent for a long moment. “When I was a teenager, I decided I wanted to work in international development,” he says, his voice suddenly quiet. “Get out of this country, go to university in London, or maybe somewhere else in Europe. Join a think tank, some independent organisation that wasn’t tied to one country. Get away from my uncle.” He shrugs. “And then my uncle decided I was too volatile and sent me to Suvorov.”

Illya hums. “I remember the place.” A boarding school designed to send kids straight into the army, filled with the sons of generals and party favourites. For him, his father’s name hanging around him like a cloud, it had been hell. It had likely been just as bad for Dmitri.

“They put a rifle in my hands and I had control for the first time in my life since my father was arrested,” Dmitri murmurs. “I liked it. I was very good at it. When someone suggested I go into the spetsnaz I didn’t hesitate. I could prove myself.”

“You did prove yourself,” Illya says. “And then Oleg took you out of the spetsnaz and into the SVR.” He’d likely had his eye on Dmitri ever since he’d joined the spetsnaz, or even earlier. He knows that he himself had been known to Oleg since he was about thirteen years old and his mother had introduced him to the stern man sitting in his living room.

“And then Oleg found me,” Dmitri agrees. “And now I’m here. Where within that could I have walked away, let alone tried to go to university in another country? My uncle would have never allowed it.”

Illya has heard many things about Boris Yuvchenko. None of them have been good.

“And now?” he finds himself asking. “If you could walk away now, would you?”

Dmitri is silent again for a long few seconds. “Look, that kid is back,” he says, staring down at the crowds below.

“Dmitri.”

“I don’t know.” Dmitri hangs his head, not looking up from the oblivious crowds milling around the shopping centre. “Now I’ve seen it…how could I go back? How could I go and do something else with everything I now know?”

“If you start thinking that you are the only person who can do your job, then you need to stop,” Illya says quietly. “There will always be someone else.”

Dmitri scoffs. “I am well aware that there could be many people who can do this job other than me. But I can make a difference. I can make a change, even if it’s as small as making sure a translator and their family is safe. That has to mean _something_.”

Illya doesn’t have an answer to that. He doesn’t have answers to so many of the questions that he can tell Dmitri is desperate to ask him, or any sort of tangible reassurances for him. That half-composed text to Gaby is burning a hole in his pocket, but he doesn’t pull out his phone. It’s not worth bringing it up yet.

“Tell me about UNCLE,” Dmitri says abruptly. He ducks his head at Illya’s look, but only briefly. “You say the stories are simplified, that it was never that easy. What was it like? What did you do?”

Illya rubs a hand across his face. Memories flicker at the edges of his vision, overlaying each other until he can barely see anything, barely remember any of it beyond the rush, like a bitter wind blowing past him that he couldn’t help but turn his face into. “Where do you want me to start?”

0-o-0-o-0

The library is never really silent. Even in the evening the soft yellow lights are still on, and there are still a few students scattered amongst the countless rows of books. The rustle of turning pages and the soft scratch of pen on paper, or the tap of keyboards, permeates the air.

That sound, the smell of old books and the reassuring creak of old wooden floors, are normally enough to let Napoleon relax. But even his usual haunts in the library aren’t helping anymore. His laptop is open, but he hasn’t written anything for over an hour. He’s not even sure what he’s been doing in that past hour beyond staring helplessly at his books and thinking of entirely different things.

It’s strange, to look up and see the dimmed yellow lights of the Institute library, instead of whatever glittering ballroom lights he was thinking of, or the harsh white of alarm lights when he’d screwed up. He’ll be the first to admit that had happened at times, though they never managed to stop him from getting away. If anything, it had only been more of a challenge, something to help chase that high he’s never quite stopped craving.

His fingers are drumming against the desk before Napoleon even realises he’s doing it. He makes himself stop, but just ends up twisting a pen between his fingers instead.

His phone buzzes, and Napoleon almost sends it flying off the desk in his haste to grab it before an angry professor, or worse, some self-righteous student who thinks they know better than anyone else, materialises and confiscates it for disrupting the sanctity of the library. “Delphine,” he says as he answers. “I only just saw you a few days ago. Missing my sparkling wit already?”

“_Mon cher_, I am starved without it,” Delphine replies. “Is everything okay? You sound quiet.”

“Oh, I’m in the library.” Napoleon leans back in his chair. “Got to keep my voice down or risk permanently disgracing myself.”

Delphine hums. “How dull,” she murmurs. “Anyway, Prado, I just wanted to call to say thank you for coffee the other day, like a proper civilised person. And I’ve heard good things about a new Japanese sushi restaurant in Soho, very modern. We’ll have to take a look at it soon.”

“Well you can pay this time,” Napoleon replies easily. “That bottle of wine from last dinner was worth more than my suit.”

“You need a better suit then, Prado.” Delphine’s voice is low and enticing over the phone, that voice she uses when she’s trying to tempt someone into something. It’s fairly ineffective on him, after all these years that he’s known him, but it still makes his fingers curl in anticipation

“Well, I suppose that all depends on how much time you have to spare for me,” Napoleon says. “We have a lot of things to talk about.”

“Ah, Prado, those words are music to my ears,” Delphine says. “A shame that this is an unsecured line. There are many things I would like to ask your opinion of.”

“I may be a little out of date,” Napoleon warns.

“It is no matter. You are sure to be a little rusty, but I would ask only for a consultation. To begin with, at least.”

“Well, then we must get dinner soon,” Napoleon says. His fingers twitch, and he spins a pen around for a moment to quiet it. “Sushi sounds wonderful.” He opens his mouth to say something else, but then there’s a muffled sound from across the library that pulls him up short.

Delphine is talking, but Napoleon tunes it out. He leans forwards in his chair to glance around the bookshelf. A book digs into his stomach, but he ignores it.

It’s that student again. The one that Napoleon has seen here before, late into the evenings. He’s looked troubled before, worried over coursework or essays, just like many other students that roam this library in the evenings.

This is, however, the first time he’s seen him crying.

The student is slumped over the desk, head pillowed in his arms, and Napoleon can see his shoulders shaking. Even from here he can hear the muffled sobs.

Delphine is still talking in his ear. “I’m going to have to call you back,” he says, already hanging up before he hears her answer. He shoves his things haphazardly in his bag, stacks the books at the end of the table where someone will pick them up and put them back, and heads for the student.

The student jolts as soon as they hear Napoleon approaching. He wipes frantically at his face and start stuffing things into his bag, but Napoleon speeds up and is sliding into the chair opposite him before his laptop is even half in his bag.

“You probably don’t want me to be sitting here and asking you this, but I’m going to anyway.” Napoleon leans forwards, trying to catch his gaze. “Is everything okay?”

“Yes- yes,” the student gets out, rubbing a trembling hand over his face. “Yes. I am- it is fine. Fine.”

Napoleon frowns at the accent. “_Tu es français__?”_

The student bursts into tears.

“Hey, hey, no it’s okay,” Napoleon says frantically. He switches into French easily. “I’m Solo, I’m a professor here. It’s okay, everything is going to be okay. What’s your name?”

“René,” the student replies between gasps for air. “I just- sorry, I’m sorry, I can’t-”

“It’s okay,” Napoleon says soothingly. “Take a deep breath, René. Try and calm down your breathing. You’ll get it in a few seconds, don’t worry.” He glances around at the rest of the library. There are a few students who have abandoned their work and are watching curiously. Napoleon glares at them until they get the hint and look back to their laptops.

René is breathing a little steadier now, wiping at the tears down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. “You shouldn’t- I’m sorry. I’ll just go and-”

“Hey, no, slow down,” Napoleon says. “Something is obviously wrong, and I think you and I should go back to my office, which is more private than this place, and have a chat about what’s going on. If I can’t help, then I promise you that I’ll find people who can. Does that sound okay?”

Fresh tears spill over René’s cheeks, but he nods and finishes shoving his things into a tattered bag. Napoleon herds him out of the library, and thanks a deity he doesn’t believe in that the corridors remain empty as they make it to his office.

“Take a seat,” Napoleon says gently. He pulls out a water bottle from the mini fridge he snuck in here one evening when he got fed up of having to fight people to get to the water cooler, and puts it on the table with a box of tissues. “Slow sips. It’ll help.”

It takes about five minutes for René to get his breath back and wipe away the last of the tears that have been slowly rolling down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he gets out eventually, still in French.

“There’s no need to apologise, but I understand why you are,” Napoleon says gently. He sits down opposite him with his own bottle of water. “You’re a transfer student, yes? On a study year abroad, or something similar? I assume you’ve come over from France.”

“Paris,” René mutters. “At Sorbonne.”

Napoleon arches a brow. “Impressive.”

René shrugs. “They offer transfer years. I wanted to learn more about art history, so I came here. But everything is in English, and I can only just understand the lectures but when I try to write an essay I can’t put the words together, and I’m failing half my classes because the professors tell me it isn’t an excuse to not write good English and that I should just try harder, but I’m trying, I’m trying as hard as I can and doing so much work but it’s not good enough, and I’m so _stupid_ and I can’t do _anything_, I can’t-”

He heaves a breath that turns into a sob on the exhale, and buries his head in his hands. “I wish…I wish I’d never come here,” he gets out in between sobs. “I want to go _home_.”

Napoleon nudges the box of tissues towards him. “Take a deep breath, René, and we’ll work this out. It’s going to be okay.”

He remembers being René’s age, on the run from the US army as he fled a war he hadn’t ever wanted to fight in. He’d hidden in Frankfurt for months without knowing a word of German when he had first arrived. It had been terrifying, and he hadn’t needed to pass any classes.

He waits again until René has calmed down before saying anything. “I’m assuming that you can’t just go back to Sorbonne?” he asks.

“If I go back, I fail this year,” René mutters. “I’m on partial scholarship, I can’t fail or they take it away and then I won’t have enough money to pay the fees, I’ll have to drop out or ask my parents but they probably won’t give me anything, they’ve barely talked to me in two years and they want nothing to do with me, but I’m failing this year anyway so what does it _matter-_”

“René,” Napoleon says firmly. “You’re not going to fail. Take a few deep breaths for me. We’re going to sort everything out.”

“How?” René asks miserably. “My English isn’t good enough.”

“But your French is fluent, and mine is close enough,” Napoleon says. “So, you can write out your arguments and your essays in French, and then bring them to me, and I will help you translate them into English. I don’t have too many lecture courses to teach right now, and I’m here late most days, so we can do this during any of my office hours or in the evenings.” He reaches for his laptop. “I’ll email you my calendar. Any time that isn’t blocked off I will be in here, and you can come in whenever you need to get some help.”

He’s halfway through logging onto his email when he realises René hasn’t said anything. He looks up to see him staring at him in shock. “You would…you would do that?” he asks. “Help me translate my work?”

Napoleon looks him steadily in the eye. “You don’t deserve to fail because you weren’t raised speaking English. And you’re obviously trying hard to get the work done here. I see no reason why I shouldn’t give you a little extra help.” He pushes a notepad and pen over to him. “Write down your professors and modules. I’ll speak to them, let them know what we’re doing. We’ll have to keep your original French essays to show that I’m not changing your work in any way or that there’s no plagiarism going on, but it should all be fine. There are other people besides me in this place who can speak French who can check if they want to.”

René is still gaping at him. “I…I don’t know what to say,” he gets out eventually. “_Thank you_. Thank you so much. I don’t- I don’t know what to say.” He looks close to tears again, gulping from the water bottle in front of him.

“You’re welcome,” Napoleon replies. “I’m only sorry nobody else has tried to help you before. All the professors here have a duty of care to their students, but not all of them seem to realise it.” He leans back in his chair, taking a sip of water to hide the palpable anger that makes him want to grab some of the older professors here and shake them until they realise that they are here to teach.

“Is everything else going okay?” he asks after a few long seconds of silence. “Moving to another city is daunting, let alone to another country, and let alone London. I’ve lived in a lot of places over the years, but London is always manic.”

René shrugs. “I’m on partial scholarship, and London is expensive. I don’t really have much money to waste on going out drinking or anything, not that I would really want to. I’m in student accommodation, which is…fine, I guess.”

“I think _fine_ is the best that student accommodation can ever get,” Napoleon says wryly. “Things work differently here from Paris, I think. If you do have trouble with something that isn’t academic, I can point you to the right people to help.” He doesn’t add that he’d be perfectly happy to lightly threaten them if anyone drags their feet or tries to pass René off from department to department. That might be a bit much for now.

René suddenly looks a little uneasy. “And what about problems with…other students,” he says hesitantly.

“What sort of problems?” Napoleon asks.

René stares down at the table. “It’s not too bad,” he mumbles. “But…well, I’ve heard a few comments. A few things people haven’t bothered to whisper behind my back.” He shrugs. “It’s nothing I haven’t heard before, back in Paris, but this time…”

This time he’s in an unfamiliar city, with nobody that he knows to back him up. Napoleon is familiar with the feeling. It’s been a long time since he’s felt completely lost in another city, but he can remember it if he thinks back far enough.

“Most of them can’t even get my nationality right,” René mutters. “Not once have I actually heard someone call me Lebanese. I’ve heard _Paki_ a few times, and that’s not even the right continent.”

Napoleon rubs his face. “Right. Well, that’s shit. Is it one person in particular?”

René shrugs. “There are a few. Though one of them might be a little quieter now, given that you kicked him out of your office a few days ago and he hasn’t said anything since.”

Napoleon blinks. He’d forgotten that it had been René outside his office as he had all but run out. “Sholto. Right.” He can’t help but grimace at the irrational urge to turn back time and shout at Sholto some more. “I shouldn’t have done that.”

“Are you kidding?” René blurts out. “I’ve never heard a professor, or even any teacher, stand up and call someone out on their bigotry like that. I wish others had done it earlier.” He suddenly seems to realise what he’d said, and drops his gaze back down to the table again. “Anyway, it might make Sholto shut up for a bit.”

Napoleon blinks again. “Oh.”

He hadn’t considered that.

“Would you like me to take this to the faculty?” he asks eventually, when René doesn’t seem to want to say anything else. “You can be anonymous at first, but I don’t quite know how these proceedings work, and you might have to recount this yourself to someone at a point. I’ll ask you first though, if anything changes.”

René hesitates. “Okay,” he mutters eventually. “I’m fed up of it. I just want it to stop.”

“I’ll do my best to make sure that happens,” Napoleon promises. “And in the meantime, do you know about the BME society here? A friend of one of my PhD students is involved in it, I think. I can ask Cassie to put them in touch with you if you think you’d like to go to a meeting, or meet some other people who probably have much better advice than anything I could say.”

“I’d like that,” René says in a quiet voice. “It would be nice if there was someone there who spoke Arabic. It’s been a while since I’ve been able to speak it.”

“I’ll stick to French, my Arabic is very rusty and only slightly conversational,” Napoleon says. “My husband was always much better at it.”

“Your husband?” René asks. Napoleon hears him mutter something under his breath. His Arabic may be rusty, but he’s pretty sure that René just said _oh thank God_. A tension that Napoleon didn’t even notice was there drains from René’s shoulders, and he smiles for the first time.

He doesn’t say anything about it. It’s not his place to push, and René will say something in time if he decides he wants to. “He spent quite a bit of time in Damascus and Beirut,” he says instead. “Back in the day. I’ve been in Beirut and Tripoli a few times, but learnt most of my Arabic in Egypt, and it’s only conversational. Besides, my accent is atrocious.”

He neglects to mention that he learnt most of his Arabic in Egypt because the CIA stuck him there for three months, and it’s only conversational because he spent most of the time learning how to barter for guns, alcohol and his life. He didn’t exactly have time to learn how to conjugate the past passive.

“Right, I think that’s probably enough emotional upheaval for today,” Napoleon says, earning a weak laugh from René. “I’ll email you my calendar so we can work out a time to work on your essays together, and I’ll talk to the faculty about Sholto. And get Cassie to get her friend from the BME society in touch with you. You’ll probably see her around if you spend any time at all in this office, she likes to stick her head in at random times and annoy me when I’m trying to work.”

He pauses as René finishes packing up his bag and slings it over his shoulder. “Who’s your personal tutor, by the way?”

“Professor Anderson,” René replies, and that’s all Napoleon needs to know. He makes a mental note to wait a day or two before speaking to Anderson, or he’ll still be angry and just end up shouting at him.

“Everything is going to be okay, René,” he says instead. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The door shuts behind René, and Napoleon slumps in his chair. “Jesus,” he mutters. He rubs a hand over his face. “Fucking hell. Right.”

He grabs the notepad that René had used, adds a few reminders of his own before tucking it away in a desk drawer. He’ll deal with that later. Right now, he has something more important he has to do.

The phone rings for long enough that Napoleon almost hangs up. Eventually there’s a click.

“’lo?”

“Peril.” Napoleon winces as he looks at the time. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to wake you up.”

There’s a rustle of sheets over the line, and then what sounds like the click of a lamp. “Leon?” Illya asks, his voice barely above a murmur. “Everything okay?”

“I just-” Napoleon pauses. The sun has long since set outside, the yellow glow of London street lamps illuminating the city. “I just wanted to hear your voice.”

Illya hums. “Miss you too,” he murmurs, already half-asleep. “How’s your day been?”

“You’re going to fall back asleep any second,” Napoleon says. He can’t help the fondness that softens his voice.

“No, I won’t,” Illya mutters, the words stretched around a yawn. “Keep talking, Cowboy.”

Napoleon grabs his bag and heads out of his office. He wants to be at home suddenly, wants to be curled up on their sofa or in their bed, even if Illya is a thousand miles away and not there to curl up next to him. “Well, there was this student I met in the library…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think Napoleon calling Illya just to hear his voice is the sweetest thing I've ever written, it made me smile just writing it. Illya calling Napoleon 'Leon' when he's tired or stressed will always be mu guilty pleasure, I just adore it. Maybe Napoleon is being set back on the right track a little, maybe it's not quite enough. You'll have to wait and see. As for Illya, he's starting to realise how much Dmitri is in over his head and how vulnerable he is to Moscow. So that's all still waiting to fall out. And don't forget, Alexi is still in the prison there. We'll get to him in good time.
> 
> There is really a shopping centre in the middle of Lubyanka, which seems a very weird juxtaposition. Also, bonus points if you can tell me the fandom that I took René's name from! Keep in mind that I'm British and do enjoy my BBC historical dramas, it's quite an obscure reference.
> 
> As always, comments are much much loved and appreciated!


	16. Ashtray

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are really starting to reach a head for Illya. This chapter might be a bit rough, but hang in there, it's going to get better eventually. Please check the end notes for more specific trigger warnings if you think you need to.

He can tell that Oleg is in a foul mood as soon as he walks into the office. Oleg’s door is closed but the other agents are eyeing it furtively, unconsciously staying as far away from it as they can as they work. The junior agents are more obvious, but even Gleb looks as close to nervous as a face can look when the nose has been broken over four times.

Illya still remembers the second time with a vicious joy. It had felt so good to see Gleb on the floor clutching his nose, even if Oleg had raked him over the coals for it afterwards. He’s still not convinced that the mission in Algiers afterwards wasn’t also punishment.

Dmitri glances up as he sees Illya come in. “The analysis you wanted,” he says, getting up and handing a file over to Illya. “There were some irregularities that traced back to known shell corporations, one that was found attached to another cell a raid near Mosul.”

Illya hums, flipping through the file. “And what about humint?” he asks. “There are people in the area. Not all intelligence comes from data and wire taps. What people know can be just as important.”

Dmitri frowns. “We don’t have any agents in that area right now,” he replies. “The closest is nearly fifty kilometres out and focused on a completely different area.”

Illya hands Dmitri the file back, smacking him with it in the chest. “If you want to do your job properly, you need more contacts than your own agents or whoever is provided for you. You have contacts from spetsnaz, yes? People you met out on missions, who might owe you favours or a debt?” He fixes Dmitri with a look. “People like translators who were extracted from a mission and then summarily disappeared, along with their wife and two children,” he says quietly.

Dmitri schools his expression a few seconds too late, and Illya gives him another look. “Your network is the most important thing you can have,” he says. “Who will hide you from one group but not another, who will pay back a favour and who will turn you over if enough money is offered. Who will have weapons, or information, or even a whisper that might change everything. You need to learn who would lay down their life if needed, and exactly why you should never ask them to do that unless they had no other choice.”

“Sir,” Dmitri says, and Illya tries hard not to roll his eyes.

He’s tired and on edge at everyone else being on edge over whatever has Oleg in a mood. Dmitri catches the flicker of movement. “Kuryakin,” he corrects. “I don’t know why you insist on that, though,” he adds after a brief second.

Illya shrugs. “Get me some decent humint and I might tell you.”

That little flash of defiance that ran through Dmitri just then should probably be rewarded, after all. He can tell that there are still far more questions that he hasn’t yet managed to ask.

“Get it to me by the end of tomorrow, and then I’ll explain how I really managed to take out a warehouse of gun smugglers without a single gun,” Illya adds.

He’s not sure why he said that. Not when he can still remember the way some of them had screamed as he’d sealed the door shut. Maybe it’s just because he never wants Dmitri to have to make that type of decision. Maybe because he knows, with mission reports floating behind his eyes and the type blurring his vision for a brief moment, that Dmitri has already come too close for comfort.

“I thought that was just a story,” Dmitri replies. “One of the ones that was so over-exaggerated that it wasn’t even real, just something that the gossip had taken and made its own. Nobody has ever been able to confirm it.”

On some days, Illya can still smell the chlorine in the air. “It was real enough.”

He pauses, half turned away to his own office. “That’s something else you’ll learn. Most stories have some sort of truth to them. Even if it isn’t the obvious one.” He taps the file in Dmitri’s hands. “Get to work.”

He’s only a few paces away when Gleb shoulders past him. “Careful,” Illya mutters.

Gleb sneers at him. “You should watch where you step,” he says. A few people look up at his snarl. Out of the corner of his eye, Illya sees Dmitri slowly getting to his feet from his desk. Gleb’s lip curls, and he spits at Illya’s feet. “You deserve no better than your bastard father, Kuryakin.”

There’s a squeal as Dmitri shoves his chair back, and a mocking laugh from Zia as she crowds into his space. “Has the puppy grown teeth?” she laughs. “Go on, Yuvchenko, bare them for me.”

“Teach him some discipline, Kuryakin,” Gleb sneers. “Or I’ll do it for you.”

Illya’s expression is stone. “Control your own protégé, Gleb,” he replies steadily. “Or I’ll do that for you. I’ll worry about mine when I have to.”

“Staking a claim so quickly?” Zia asks with a grin. She pokes Dmitri in the chest. “You can’t just return him when you find out he’s defective, you know.”

Dmitri swats her hand away. “Don’t touch me,” he snarls.

“Oh, but how will you ever be able to handle yourself undercover if you tremble when a woman gets up close?” Zia croons, sidling up to him and sliding one hand down his chest. “Poor little Dmitri. Doesn’t even know where to put his hands. Afraid I’ll bite them off? Or go for something else?”

Illya sees the minute glance Dmitri sends his way. It’s not a call for help. No SVR agent worth anything would ask that quickly, or not try to handle a situation themselves first. But it’s a question that Illya can read easily enough in the glance Dmitri gives him, the way he’s standing. It’s a question of backup.

Illya doesn’t walk over and pull them apart. He doesn’t even take a step towards them. Gleb is watching his every move, and Zia will react to anything Gleb does. Too overt a step, and Zia will push Dmitri further to make sure he’s the one who does something first. Oleg is just inside his office. One wrong move, and a chain reaction could be set off that would end with all of them getting in trouble. It’s a delicate balance.

It’s child’s play compared to mediating between Napoleon and Gaby when they really got going.

“I have better things to do than stand here and do this with you,” Illya says to Gleb. He looks him up and down. “Much better things. Unfortunately, my husband is in another country right now, so I can’t do the things at the top of my list. But there’s still a lot more above standing here and talking to you.” He doesn’t break eye contact with Gleb as he calls over his shoulder. “Dmitri. Grab your coat.”

Zia snatches it up first before Dmitri can get to it. “Here you go, darling,” she purrs. One hand is still on Dmitri’s chest, and she slides it a little lower. Dmitri glances at Illya again.

“Get your hands off me,” he says.

Zia’s smile is going to grow into a terrifying thing if she stays at Lubyanka for a few more years. At the moment Illya is unmoved, but he can tell that it’s unsettling Dmitri. “Oh, you’re going to have to ask me more nicely than that,” she says. Her hand slides a little lower again. “Don’t be so prudish. It’s like you’ve never seen a woman before.”

Illya gives Gleb a sharp look. “Control her, and stop her harassing him before Oleg notices and we all get in trouble,” he snaps. “Or do you want to wait until that door opens and then see where the cards fall?” Gleb glares at him, but Illya shrugs it off. “Who do you think he’s going to listen to?” he asks quietly.

Gleb looks away first. “He’s not worth your time, Zia,” he tells her over his shoulder. “Leave the puppy for another day. I don’t think he even knows what to do with you.”

Zia trails one finger down his cheek. “Poor thing,” she croons. At a look from Gleb, she steps back from Dmitri. “I’ll have to entertain you some other time.”

Dmitri pulls his coat on, wrapping it around himself. “If it’s all the same to you, I’d rather not.”

“What a shame,” Zia purrs. “I’m sure I could teach you a thing or two.” She reaches out and runs a trailing finger down his jaw.

Dmitri slaps her away. “Get your hands _off me_,” he snarls. His voice is loud, too loud, and everyone else tenses.

“Dmitri,” Illya says in warning. He’s barely taken a step forwards when Oleg’s office door slams open.

The room falls silent. Illya turns to see Oleg standing in the door.

There’s still some part of him, all these years later, that cowers at the way Oleg’s voice cracks like a whip through the room. He pushes it away. It isn’t useful now, not when Zia and Dmitri are flinching away from Oleg as he hurls threats covered in barbs. He glances over at Gleb, seeing the same carefully concealed concern on his face as must be on his own, lest Oleg see it and use it as further ammunition. Gleb is tensed, leaning forwards over the desk and watching Oleg carefully.

They’d all learned how to watch for Oleg’s tells. Learnt when to answer him or when to stay silent, and when to watch his hands instead of his face. Illya has been away from these halls for a long time, but he hasn’t forgotten.

Neither Zia or Dmitri have learnt this yet. Zia is backing up, moving back towards Gleb. Dmitri hasn’t moved a muscle. Both of them are staring at Oleg, unable to look away. He’s still shouting in that way that always used to make Illya shake apart until he found himself in another room with the furniture in pieces around him. Illya takes a breath, and another, until the room stops shrinking around him.

Dmitri is trembling. Illya can see it in the hands curled into fists at his side, the way the muscle in his jaw jumps. And he sees the exact moment that Dmitri makes a mistake.

“Sir-”

Illya sees what Oleg is going to do before he does it. Gleb sees it too, judging by how he is instantly moving. He’s too far away to reach Zia but he tries anyway, almost jumping over the desk for her before self-preservation wins out and he ducks down.

Illya grabs Dmitri as Oleg hand closes around the heavy crystal ashtray. He tries to pull him down, but Dmitri lunges forwards and he loses his grip. Zia is standing there, eyes wide, and Dmitri grabs hold of the back of her shirt to heave her back and out of the way.

The ashtray just misses her. The crack of it colliding with Dmitri’s temple resonates through the room, deep into Illya’s bones and sending them ringing.

He isn’t quick enough to catch Dmitri as he drops to the ground, all his strings cut. Dmitri rolls over, clutching his head. Bright red seeps through his fingers.

There’s the slam of a door, but Illya doesn’t look up as Oleg presumably disappears back into his office. The other agents in the room are silent. Zia starts forwards and then stops, but Illya barely spares her a moment’s notice. He gently pulls Dmitri’s hand away from his temple, and fresh blood spills from the split skin down onto the carpet.

“Fuck,” Dmitri mutters, squeezing his eyes shut. “Fuck. Christ, that hurt.”

Illya puts Dmitri’s hand back on the wound. “Put pressure on it,” he says. “Stay down for a moment. Someone give me a towel or a cloth.”

One appears in front of his face, and Illya replaces Dmitri’s hand with it. Dmitri winces, and tries to push himself up. “Easy now,” Illya murmurs. He grabs Dmitri’s arm and slowly levers him up to a sitting position. “Breathe, Dmitri.”

Dmitri looks up at him. His face has gone pale, and his eyes aren’t quite focusing on Illya. “I’m fine,” he mutters. “I’m fine, I’m fine.” He tries to get to his feet, but he barely gets a foot off the floor before his face goes white and he sinks back down.

Illya props him up against the back of a desk. “Deep breaths,” he says. “Try not to throw up.”

“I’m fine,” Dmitri mutters again. “Just let me catch my breath.”

Illya stays crouched down next to him, putting his own hand over Dmitri’s to hold the cloth to his temple. It’s slowly turning red. When he looks up, half of the agents in the room are surrounding them, trying not to crowd but are too curious to stay away. Zia is staring at Dmitri with wide eyes. As Illya watches, Gleb takes her elbow and tugs her away. “Clear out, people,” he snaps, but his voice lacks its usual edge. “Stop staring at the puppy and get out before Oleg decides that one ashtray isn’t enough.”

Gleb gives Illya an uncertain nod and then tugs Zia away. Slowly the rest of the agents filter out, a few giving Dmitri sympathetic looks as they leave. Some of them stay, settling back in at their desks like there isn’t a half-conscious agent with a bloody towel pressed to his head slumped on the floor.

“Can you stand?” Illya says after five minutes.

Dmitri pushes himself up to his feet. He stumbles, and Illya catches him and takes some of his weight before he gives himself a matching wound on the other temple from a desk corner. “I’m fine,” Dmitri mutters yet again.

There’s blood slowly trickling out from under the cloth and down his cheek. Illya’s thumb smears through it as he catches Dmitri’s head in one hand, propping it upright at Dmitri lolls forwards. “What’s the date?” he asks. “Dmitri, what date is it?”

Dmitri hesitates, blinking sluggishly at Illya. “Right,” Illya says. “Hospital. Now.”

“No, no I’m fine,” Dmitri mutters. He sways on his feet. “I’m fine. Don’t need to go to hospital. Just let me sleep- sleep it off. I’ll be fine.”

“Save me from self-sacrificing idiots_,_” Illya mutters to himself. He tightens his grip on Dmitri when he starts to sag against the desk. “No. We are going to hospital. That cut needs stitches, and you are going to get that done by actual professionals.”

It seems to take hours to find the keys for a car, get Dmitri down to the garage and into a car without him falling over his own feet, and then to the hospital. Twice he has to stop before Dmitri throws up, putting on the hazard lights as he pulls over to the side of the road and gesturing back at the various idiots who shout at him as they drive past.

The hospital is tiring, as hospitals always are. Illya manages to convince a nurse to let Dmitri through quickly, spinning some lie about an ice hockey game and a misdirected puck. It’s easy enough to pick out the right nurse, one that looks like she is probably a mother, and spin the story in just the right way to earn enough sympathy to be ushered through.

He spends half the time in the hospital stopping Dmitri from stumbling out the door with mutters of how he doesn’t need to be in hospital, and the other half stopping him from swatting at the nurse every time she brings a needle close to his face to stitch up the gash in his temple.

Spies tend to not do very well with other people holding sharp implements near them. Concussed spies who can’t even remember the date do even worse.

Dmitri eventually quietens and allows the nurse to stitch him up. “I could have done this at home,” he mutters half-heartedly.

Illya doesn’t doubt that he could. He remembers sitting in front of cracked bathroom mirrors in safehouses or hideouts or his own apartment, threading a needle with trembling hands. He remembers being half out of it from the pain and slumped against the bathroom wall in some safehouse in Nicaragua, and that time Napoleon’s hands were the ones trembling as he emptied half a bottle of vodka over the wound and poured the other half down Illya’s throat, then picked up a needle.

“It doesn’t mean you have to do it now,” he just says. “Let the nurse do their work.”

The nurse hands him a leaflet about concussions that finds its way straight back to the nurses’ station as they walk out, Illya half dragging Dmitri along with him. He bundles him into the car, letting him doze as he slips through the traffic and breaks various traffic laws by texting Azra as he drives.

By the time he gets back to Lubyanka Hotel, Azra is lounging in the foyer. “Oh, the poor puppy,” she says as she takes in Dmitri dragging his feet across the carpet, eyes half-shut. Illya puts out a hand to stop him before he walks into a table.

“Not the time, Azra,” Illya says with a quick glare. “Do you have the files I asked for?”

“Not only did I bring your precious files, I also threatened one of the other puppies to find Dmitri’s go bag for me.” Azra pulls a briefcase and a duffel bag out and hands them over. “How is he?”

“_He_ is still conscious,” Dmitri mutters. He takes a few steps forwards, and Illya reaches out to steer him around the potted plant before he trips over it and gives himself another concussion.

“_He_ needs to go and sleep off the concussion,” Illya replies. “Let me know if Oleg is about to have an aneurysm when he finds out I’m not in Lubyanka. I’m going to get this one somewhere with a bed before he falls over.”

“Remember, wake him up every hour, make sure his water bowl is topped up and take him outside for walks if he starts scratching at the door,” Azra says with a smirk. “Oleg won’t be happy if you return a defective puppy, you know.”

Illya sees a tremor run through Dmitri out of the corner of his eye. “Enough, Azra,” he snaps. “That’s enough.” He pulls Dmitri towards the elevators, catching his arm when he stumbles over the carpet edge. “Nearly there,” he says, propping Dmitri up against the elevator wall. “Stay awake, Dmitri.”

Dmitri hums, his head tipping forwards and down to his chest. He doesn’t seem to realise that he isn’t in his apartment, until Illya unlocks his door and ushers Dmitri through the door into the living room of the hotel suite.

Illya cuts him off before he can say anything. “You’re concussed. Someone needs to wake you up every two hours to make sure you haven’t slipped into a coma, and it can either be me or one of the other agents. Here is your go bag. Put something on that isn’t covered in blood and then you can sleep.”

Dmitri puts up another fight when Illya gently pushes him towards the bedroom. “There’s a sofa right there,” he mutters, wincing as he stumbles. One hand goes to his head, hovering just over the large patch of gauze over his temple.

“You are concussed, you get to sleep in the bed.” Illya puts himself in the doorway and glares until Dmitri toes off his shoes, changes his shirt for one that isn’t covered in blood and unsteadily crawls under the duvet. He’s asleep within seconds.

Illya turns the light out and pulls the door to before letting out the string of curses he’s been holding in ever since Oleg went for that ashtray. “Jesus fucking Christ,” he mutters. “Fuck. Shit. That fucking bastard. This fucking place.”

He presses the heels of his hands into his eyes until he can see stars. It wouldn’t be a good idea to cross the square to Lubyanka and find Oleg. No matter how much of a good idea it feels like it would be.

He’s reaching for his phone before he even realises what’s he’s doing. It’s getting into the evening here, which means it’ll be the middle of the afternoon back in London. For Napoleon, that means he’ll be in the midst of lectures and workshops and seminars. He won’t have time to field phone calls from his husband, especially when Illya doesn’t even know what to say.

It would be unfair. He has to come back on his own. He can’t just call Napoleon every time something goes wrong.

He’d always known Oleg to be a bastard, and to throw anything within reach when he really got going. Him and Gleb had reacted instinctively this morning, ducking down out of the way as soon as Oleg had moved. Anyone who had been there more than a few years had learned this the hard way.

Illya realises he’s tracing the scar just above his eyebrow with one finger, feeling the raised ridge running across just below his temple. He forces himself to put his hand back down and turn to the files Azra brought him.

It was something wholly different watching Dmitri go down, hearing the crack of the ashtray connecting with his temple and seeing the bright red blood that spilled out from beneath his fingers. It’s different when it’s Dmitri that he’s bundling into a car and taking to hospital, Dmitri that he’s talking down from lunging at the nurse because she has a needle too close to his face and his first reaction is that it’s a weapon. It’s different when it’s Dmitri currently curled up under the duvet with seven stitches in his temple and sleeping off a concussion because of Oleg’s temper.

A half-composed text to Gaby burns a hole in his pocket. He pulls out his phone. He could finish it. He could text her, or Napoleon. He could buy two plane tickets right now and be out of the country before Oleg knows anything.

He does none of these things. He sets an alarm to go off every two hours, and then pulls out the files Azra had packed for him.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya jerks awake. He’s reaching for his phone before his eyes are open, and already has it in his hand when he realises that it isn’t the alarm that he set that’s woken him up. His phone is silent. The screen says there’s still twenty minutes left until his next alarm goes off and Dmitri is lightly quizzed on current affairs again.

There’s a muffled thump from the bedroom, and a curse. Illya sits up in time to see Dmitri stagger through the door into the living room of the suite. “What are you doing?” he asks.

Dmitri starts, and then winces. He grips onto the doorframe to steady himself. “Did you keep waking me up?” he mumbles. “I think I remember telling you that it couldn’t be November.”

“Yes, you were very insistent that it’s only October for some reason.” Illya sits up on the sofa. His coat, that he’d been using as a blanket, falls off to pool at his feet. “What’s wrong?”

“Painkillers,” Dmitri mutters. He pushes off the doorframe and makes it about halfway across the room before beginning to stagger. He grabs the back of the sofa and just about manages not to fall into it.

“Sit down, I’ll get them,” Illya says. “I left them on the bedside table so you wouldn’t have to get up to get more.”

“Oh.” Dmitri’s voice is small, and he hunches down on the sofa as Illya gets up. He’s still curled up, tucked into the edge of the sofa, when Illya gets back and hands him the pills, but swallows them down without complaint.

Illya takes a look at him, at the sleeves of a baggy sweater pulled up over his hands, legs tucked up underneath him as he slumps in the chair and presses a sleeve-covered hand to his temple. “I’ll- I’ll make tea.”

Dmitri uncurls a little when Illya sets the mug down in front of him and retreats to the armchair opposite, mug clasped between his own hands. “Waverly used to live solely on tea, I think,” he muses, staring at his mug and definitely not at Dmitri. “Every post-mission briefing, there would be a pot of tea waiting for us. Even at two in the morning when we’d just stepped off the plane, there was tea there, and it was always perfectly brewed.”

Dmitri hums. He wraps his own hands around his mug, still tucked away in his sleeves, and uncurls a little further. Illya waits him out.

It’s easy enough, compared to waiting for Napoleon to untangle his thoughts enough to speak, or for Gaby to finally admit she’s worked up over something and to stop stabbing a screwdriver at a car engine. It’s barely five minutes before Dmitri sets his mug down on the coffee table.

“Do you think…” He clears his throat, tucking his hands back into his sleeves. He suddenly looks impossibly young.

“Do you think he meant to hit me?”

Illya sets his mug down on the table. He’d expected Dmitri to ask something like this, but all of the things he thought he might say fall flat on his tongue. “No,” he says eventually. “Or at least, not you specifically.”

“Did he mean to hit _someone_?” Dmitri asks.

Illya’s hand is half-raised to his temple before he remembers himself. “I don’t know,” he says reluctantly.

Dmitri curls further into the corner of the sofa. If Illya hadn’t been there, he would have taken himself home, stitched himself up in the bathroom mirror, and had nobody here to answer any of these questions. Illya fights back the urge to go over to Lubyanka and find Oleg.

Dmitri deserves better answers than that, and Illya makes himself pull them from his tongue. “Oleg used to do the same, back when…back then. We all were hit at one point, before learning when to get out of the way. We were too quick for him to catch us soon enough, but he still kept doing it. Maybe he forgot that you and Zia hadn’t…learnt what Gleb and I had learnt. Maybe he assumed that you would get out of the way.”

“Maybe he didn’t care either way,” Dmitri mutters into his lap.

Illya inclines his head. “Maybe.”

Dmitri rubs a hand over his face. “I shouldn’t have let Zia get to me.”

“If you give her a reaction, she’ll keep pushing,” Illya says. “But Oleg would have snapped at some point anyway.” Dmitri just stares down at his hands, half hidden by the ends of his sleeves, and Illya leans forwards. “Dmitri,” he says softly. “It wasn’t your fault.”

“Wasn’t it?” Dmitri mutters. He tucks his knees up to his chest. “I shouldn’t have said anything to him. I shouldn’t have said anything to Zia. Shouldn’t let her get to me.” He runs his hands through his hair, gripping at it until his face pales at the tug on the stitches in his temple. “Shouldn’t let her get to me,” he mutters. “Shouldn’t- I just can’t _help it_. She starts doing all that, and _flirting_, and I just- I just don’t know what to _do_, it’s so stupid, it’s so _fucking _stupid but I can’t stand it when she starts doing that, and I know it’s so stupid and I should just shut up and keep my head down but I just- I can’t do it anymore.”

He breaks off to take a shuddering breath, throat working like he’s about to be sick. “Dmitri,” Illya says, but Dmitri shakes his head. Illya waits until Dmitri has heaved in a breath and finally, with a desperate look in his eyes, he looks up at Illya.

“I like men,” he gets out. “Instead of women. I think. I don’t- I don’t know if I even like _anyone_, but…I think I like men.”

He did not see this coming.

Illya is frozen. He can’t move. He just watches Dmitri as he heaves in a breath.

Neither of them makes a sound. Dmitri is staring at him with an expression that slowly turns from nervous to worried to terrified, before it just…shuts off.

Illya watches as Dmitri’s face shutters. He’s blank now; no desperate stare at Illya anymore, nothing left for Illya to try and understand. Illya is unable to move, do to anything as Dmitri heaves himself unsteadily to his feet and stumbles past him. He’s heading straight for the door.

Markos is suddenly sitting across from him in a dingy pub, pints of beer slowly turning warm on the table. Markos is staring at him in shock, and Illya remembers the vicious terror that had clawed its way up his throat, silencing him until all he could do was wait, wait and pray to a god that he stopped believing in long ago that Markos wouldn’t hate him for who he loved. That he wouldn’t lose one of the few people who hadn’t yet turned away from him, but might, because he dared to tell him he was dating another man.

An echo of that terror floods through him, and just that is enough to nearly knock him to his knees. Dmitri is already halfway to the door.

“_Wait_.”

Dmitri stutters to a stop, and the echo of terror still resonating deep in Illya’s bones propels him to his feet. “It’s okay,” he gets out. “Dmitri. It’s okay.”

Dmitri makes a sound halfway between a gasp and a sob. He’s just standing there, faced away from Illya, halfway to the door.

Illya moves slowly towards him. “It’s okay,” he says again.

Dmitri’s shoulders are shaking. Illya takes another step closer.

“I know how you feel,” Illya says, the echo of that indescribable terror still pulsing through his bones. “I know exactly how you feel, Dmitri. I bet that’s why you told me. But look at me. I’m still here. I have a _husband_ now. And it’s okay. It’s going to be okay.”

He sees the way Dmitri shakes at some of his words. “I’m still here,” he says again, and he knows he’s guessed right when Dmitri’s breath hitches at the words. “Dmitri. This isn’t going to- this is not going to be the end of anything. Ten years down the line you’re still going to be here, and you’re still going to be you. It’s going to be okay.”

Dmitri’s breath hitches again, and then a sob escapes his lips. Illya’s feet move without his permission.

He remembers Markos all those years ago, shoving his chair back and getting to his feet, nearly knocking their pints over. For a second, Illya had thought he was going to hit him, or storm out in disgust. Instead, Markos had flung his arms around him.

It had been tight enough to be painful, but Illya hadn’t cared as Markos had hugged him in the middle of that dingy little pub. Nothing else had mattered except Markos not turning away.

He reaches out for Dmitri. He has no idea what he’s doing, what he should say or do to try and make this better, but he reaches out anyway.

There’s a fragile moment, where Dmitri looks achingly uncertain and Illya hesitates, and then Illya grips his shoulder and pulls him into an embrace. A sob rips its way out of Dmitri’s chest, muffled in Illya’s shoulder. Slowly, hesitating with every movement, Dmitri begins to grip him back. Illya holds on so tight to him that it probably hurts a little, but Dmitri is now openly sobbing into his shoulder and the echo of terror thrumming through his bones quiets moment after moment. It’s enough to just tighten his grip again, let Dmitri begin to sob out years of fear and shame, and hold on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings for physical abuse of a character by their superior (not Illya), blood, mentions of stitches, a character coming out and being terrified of doing so (though receives support and encouragement, there's no homophobia).
> 
> Fun story- the whole second half of this chapter was not in my head until literally the moment I started writing it. I was getting into the scene, Illya and Dmitri talking about what had happened, and it suddenly hit me that of course, Dmitri is queer. It suddenly made so much sense, the extent to which he idolises Illya, the way he can see things from the outside despite having been deep inside the system since he was a child, because he's developed that heightened sense of awareness of both himself and everyone around him to check that he's not giving anything away.
> 
> There is absolutely no way that Illya is not going to adopt Dmitri now, it's not possible for him to abandon him at this point. But it's not quite over yet...
> 
> As always, comments especially are so so loved, life is a bit stressful at the moment and every single comment absolutely makes my day!


	17. Van Gogh

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry that it's been a while since a new chapter. As I'm sure everyone has noticed, life has gone somewhat crazy, and I've spent a couple weeks trying to work out exactly what's going to happen with my Masters, etc (it should all be fine, but having to study from online lectures and take exams online is not going to be fun). But I've made it back now! Hopefully publishing will be on a bit of a more regular schedule now that I'm staying home and have more time.

“I don’t know what to do.”

They’re back on the sofa. Illya has no idea what time it is now, only that Dmitri had sobbed against his shoulder until he was all but sagging against Illya, utterly exhausted. He’s curled up at one end of the sofa now, but there’s a weight off his shoulders that Illya hadn’t even realised was there until he’d stepped back from Illya’s embrace and breathed for the first time in years.

The mugs of tea on the coffee table have long since gone cold. Illya picks his up, that old hatred of wasting anything that still lingers from his childhood warring with how he knows this cold tea is going to taste. He sets it back down without drinking any of it.

“You don’t _have_ to do anything,” he says slowly, looking back up at Dmitri. “You don’t have to pick a label, or- Christ, I’m trying really hard to remember the things Napoleon has told me.” He rubs a hand over his face. “I’m not the best person to talk to about these things. I don’t know much about identities or labels or anything beyond the fact that I’m gay and love another man.”

“You’re the only person,” Dmitri says, his voice small. “You know I can’t tell _anyone_ here. I’ll get kicked out, at best, or just taken out to some alley and shot.”

Illya tries desperately to not let that image take hold. He doesn’t know what to say. He hadn’t even begun to come to terms with his identity when Waverly snapped him up and he was suddenly in a world where he wasn’t going to be regarded with disgust for being himself. He’s only able to be safe here on the value of his reputation. Dmitri doesn’t have that.

“They don’t dare go after you because you’re…you,” Dmitri mutters. “You have a reputation. They know that if they were to do anything, it would end worse for them than it would for you. We all know how to weigh the odds, and everyone here wants to survive. Going after you would be suicide.” He tucks himself further into the corner of the sofa. “If- if they knew about me…it would be getting rid of a nuisance.”

“You’re not a nuisance,” Illya says automatically. He tries again to remember anything that Napoleon talked to him about, during those long months where everything spiralled and he had no idea who he was anymore, away from Russia and away from a place where he had to pretend that he was someone he’s not. There had been so many conversations like this, Napoleon trying to help him untangle the mass of thoughts and half-formed ideas that had been soaked in shame for so long that they were unrecognisable when finally teased out into the light. There was a whole new language that Napoleon had shown him, new ideas that he’d been gently introduced to over mugs of tea and games of chess.

All he can remember are small bits and pieces absorbed in the rush of new information all those years ago, things that are useless on their own. He knows there are many other identities out there, he knows there is probably one, or a combination of ones, that Dmitri will find to fit himself, but he has no idea what they might be or how to describe them.

“Am I the only one who you’ve talked to?” he asks eventually, when the silence has dragged on too long and Dmitri is beginning to look uncomfortable again.

Dmitri nods, and then hesitates. “I think…I think Alexi suspected something.”

Illya very carefully doesn’t react to Alexi’s name.

“He never said anything. But sometimes I got the sense- I don’t know. But nobody else would have- he was probably the only person who would have known what to- to look for.” Dmitri rubs a hand over his face, gripping at his hair until he winces as it pulls at his stitches.

“He was in love with Markos,” he says quietly, the words seeming to drag out of him. “I don’t think most people could see it, but then most people…”

“Wouldn’t ever think that he could love another man,” Illya finishes for him. His voice fades out as things fall into place.

Alexi had loved him. Of course.

His screams, his desperate pleas for Illya to kill him, they take on another hue in the back of his mind where they echo. Alexi had loved Markos. Alexi had loved him, and he had died.

He would burn the world down for Napoleon. Alexi tried to do the same for Markos.

“I was going to- to do what you said,” Dmitri says quietly, jolting Illya from his thoughts. “Keep my head down. Get to a position where maybe, just maybe, I could be somewhere else. If Alexi loved Markos, even if Markos had never loved him back, then maybe just one person knowing was enough. One person not hating me was enough.” He huffs a bitter laugh. “And then Markos went and got himself killed.”

“And Alexi…”

He went mad with his grief. Or whatever passes for madness for them, in this place. Is it madness, if Moscow gave him no other option?

“I should just keep my head down,” Dmitri mutters. Illya can hear the exhaustion leaking into his voice now, just beginning to slur his words together. “Should just…keep my mouth shut.”

It’s exactly what Illya had been telling him. What he’d been trying to get through to him. Right now, he wants nothing more than for Dmitri to stop parroting his words back to him.

“We’ll come up with…something, Dmitri,” he says eventually. “I’m not the best- I’m out of my depth, here. I can ask Napoleon for information, or someone else, but that runs the risk of information leaking. Word spreads. Phones are tapped. You know how it is.”

The grimace to Dmitri’s mouth makes it clear he knows exactly how it is. “Don’t,” he says. “Not yet. I can’t- I can’t risk it.” He rubs at his face, and Illya can see him trying to stifle a yawn.

He checks his watch. “It’s nearly three in the morning. Go back to sleep, Dmitri. Sleep off the rest of your concussion. Things will look easier in the morning.”

Dmitri hauls himself to his feet. “Thank you,” he says, not quite meeting Illya’s gaze. He turns and staggers unsteadily back into the bedroom.

Illya waits twenty minutes, until he is certain that Dmitri is asleep. He gets to his feet, sorts out the scattered files on the coffee table, and waits another ten before reaching under the lampshade and carefully detaching the bug.

One of the first things he’d done when he arrived, after getting rid of the SVR’s bugs, was bug his own hotel room. He wasn’t above paranoia, and the SVR were definitely not above breaking into his hotel room to look through his things. There were a few bugs placed strategically around the room, each of them only recording the last twelve hours before wiping themselves and starting again. Illya carefully detaches each one of them. He puts them in the sink and turns on the tap, breaking them in half once the noise covers it. Only once he’s sure that they’re dead does he pull the plug and watch the pieces disappear.

If he’d known Dmitri was going to spring this on him, he would have made damn sure he didn’t have these bugs in place. Or that they were in a Faraday chamber where nobody could listen in. Or in another country where they didn’t have to worry about being overhead.

Dmitri is never going to know.

Illya ends up back on the sofa, staring up at the ceiling in the dark. His phone is burning a hole in his pocket but he can’t bring himself to look at it, to stare at Napoleon’s name some more before inevitably not calling him or at the half-composed text to Gaby he needs to finish even more urgently now.

Alexi had loved Markos. And he’d begged for Illya to kill him in the end.

He isn’t going to let Dmitri end up there.

0-o-0-o-0

_Raphael, Portrait of a Young Man, 1513-1514, oil on panel_

The small image staring up at him from the page is nothing compared to what the real painting must look like, but it’s enough to show the young man, furs draped over his shoulders, staring confidently at the viewer. Illya’s cramped handwriting fills up the space around it.

_It survived. Polish intelligence has it moving from Poland to Switzerland (1955) to Germany (1980s??). Definitely was in Russia in 90s because Petrov really wanted to find it. Is now probably in Poland again. You never found it, Cowboy. If you had I would have never heard the end of it_.

He flips over a few more pages. There are more annotations around a grayscale image of _En Canot_, this one a little more fanciful as to what might have happened to it. Illya’s annotations grow more imaginative and colourful as the book goes on.

Napoleon flips it shut. He can hear Illya’s voice, staring at his cramped writing that took him so long to be able to decipher, and he shoves the book away. It’s too much. Illya is in Moscow, in Lubyanka, a thousand miles away, and all Napoleon gets of him is a tired voice over the phone.

He never actually took any of the art talked about in this book, it cuts off at around the nineties, when he was still learning his tricks and not thinking about the bigger fish yet. He’d still been looking over his shoulder for an army that he’d eventually realised didn’t give a shit about him. It had taken a few more months before he’d first felt the euphoria of a heist gone right, and decided that was all he wanted to chase.

He’s staring at a book, not taking in any of the words, when there’s a tentative knock on his office door. René hovers in the doorway for a few moments before sitting down at the table, murmuring a quiet _salut_, and Napoleon lets himself enjoy a quiet victory at the steady confidence increase René shows every time he walks through the door.

“Do you have that essay from last week back yet?” he asks, switching easily into French as he clears a few books from the table. “Julia is usually pretty on time with hers, and I did let her know I was helping you with translation, so she shouldn’t have had an issue with that.”

René nods. “I had to defend it to her to prove it was my work, but I think that didn’t go badly. But I have the dissertation assigned now and my English is still not good enough, it’s going to go so badly and I’m never going to pass it, let alone do well enough to warrant my scholarship, and-”

“René,” Napoleon says, gently cutting him off. “It’s going to be fine. Have you decided your topic?”

“I’ve written an outline already in French.” René hands over a stapled stack of paper. “How Van Gogh’s institutionalisation helped him make better art.” He waves one hand. “It needs a better title.”

Napoleon hums. “Good topic. I have a few books that might be useful for that as well.” He gets up and skims through his bookshelf, pulling out three books that he knows have chapters on Van Gogh. There is a fourth one that he can’t find, and he suspects Cassie has been raiding his shelves again. “How are you- shit, what’s the word in French? The- what you put around a picture?”

“Frame?” René asks tentatively.

Napoleon points one of the books at him. “Yes, that one. How are you framing your argument?”

René has some intelligent answers that Napoleon picks apart a little, and it devolves into a long conversation about post-impressionism and how to accurately translate things when there isn’t a direct translation for common French phrases that would make no sense in English. Napoleon privately rejoices a little every time René remembers an English translation for a convoluted term in the essay, or loses a little of the uncertainty in his voice when he voices his opinion. They’re getting there. Slowly but surely, they’re getting there.

“No, I think you have it right to be very critical of the idea of the tortured artist,” Napoleon finds himself saying at one point. “If that’s the point of your dissertation, then you don’t want to weaken your argument by presenting too many ideas to the contrary, even if you then disagree with them. Pick out some works and go into detail about what they miss and why they’re wrong. You know that _Self Portrait with a Bandaged Ear_ is here in the Institute, yes?”

“Yes, I’ve seen it quite a few times now,” René replies. “But I was actually going to focus on _The Starry Night_ for this section. It is arguably his most famous piece, but the fact that he painted it whilst in Saint-Paul-de-Mausole is somewhat overlooked, at least in the public sphere.”

“You’ll have to be careful about the separation of the academic sphere and the public,” Napoleon cautions. “And you’ll have to decide whether to go deeper into his techniques as well, brushwork and the like, or stay in a more historical setting.”

René shrugs. “I haven’t decided yet. Also, you don’t- that’s not how you pronounce brushwork.”

Napoleon laughs. “I’m a little rusty on my vocabulary. Day to day conversations don’t tend to involve discussions about brushwork, and my husband wouldn’t even know to correct me, his French is worse than mine.” He pauses. “To be fair, we talk in Russian half the time anyway. I could probably talk more about artwork in Russian than I could French.”

“Your husband is Russian?” René asks. “How did you meet?”

Napoleon laughs before he can help himself. “It’s a long story. A very long story.”

René is looking up at him, seeming on the verge of asking more. Napoleon knows the feeling. He remembers being a young corporal in the army and running into his staff sergeant on leave whilst halfway across the country, wandering around town with what was obviously his boyfriend. That indescribable feeling of wanting to run up to him and say _me too, I’m like you, is it okay, if you’re here is it going to be okay for me?_

“We met over a decade ago, but only got married about a year and a half ago,” he says, instead of all the reassurances crowding his tongue that René probably isn’t quite ready to hear him expound on at length. “We were dragging our feet about the wedding planning so much that eventually our friend Gaby stepped in and did it all for us, just so she didn’t have to listen to us complain.”

Quite honestly, he would have married Illya in their back garden with only Gaby and Illya’s mother in attendance, but Gaby had wanted it to be a whole _thing_.

“Anyway, Van Gogh. Let’s look at this next paragraph. Give me your best translation.”

Napoleon is halfway through trying to explain to René why he needs to use the past passive in this context but not in others when there’s a knock on his door and Cassie sticks her head in. “Sup,” she says. “Are you busy?”

“Always and forever,” Napoleon replies automatically. “What is it?”

Cassie waves a stack of paper at him. “Hell. In the form of essays that I was so wonderful to collect for you.”

Napoleon had completely forgotten about those. “Right. Thanks. Leave them on my desk, will you?”

Cassie swans into his office like she owns the place, which she nearly does at this point. Since he saw her last, she’s painted a rainbow flag on the flap of her bag, and it’s almost obnoxiously neon bright. Napoleon catches René staring at it.

“Oh, Cassie, this is René,” he says. “He’s doing a study year abroad from Sorbonne, and has very interesting thoughts on Van Gogh. René, this is Cassie. She’s my PhD student, for my sins, and doesn’t understand what a closed office door means.”

Cassie sticks her tongue out at him. “Hi, René, nice to meet you,” she says. “Ignore Solo. He’s harmless once you get to know him.”

René huffs a quiet laugh. “Actually,” he says quietly, not quite meeting Napoleon’s gaze. “If we are in English, I- I use they and them, please.”

Napoleon blinks. “Oh, cool,” Cassie says. “Neat-o.”

“Neat-o?” Napoleon asks her before he can stop himself. “Have you turned into a nineties California surfer dude?”

“Don’t- don’t bogart my style, man,” Cassie replies, a wicked grin on her face. “It’s…tubular.”

Napoleon tosses a pen at her head. “I don’t know why I know you.”

René is quiet, staring down at the table. “Hey,” Napoleon says quietly. “All good?”

René wipes at their eyes. “Yes,” they say quietly. “Yes- I’m good. Very good.”

“Hey, have you been to the LGBTQ society here?” Cassie asks. She dumps her bag on the table and takes a seat. “I’m the treasurer for it, which means there is a portion of the budget actually set aside for glitter. We meet every Thursdays at a nearby café, and sometimes have larger get-togethers with the UCL lot. We’re all pretty chill people, and a couple of my friends identify as non-binary or genderqueer, so you wouldn’t be on your own.”

“It’ll give Cassie an opportunity to finally improve her terrible French,” Napoleon says wryly.

“Speaking of, if you don’t mind me asking, what pronouns do you use in French?” Cassie asks. “It must be a right pain with gendered pronouns.”

“Right…pain?” René asks. “What does that mean?”

“Annoying,” Napoleon clarifies. “Cassie, lay off the interrogation.”

“Right, sorry, I have the blunt tact of the useless lesbian that I am,” Cassie says with a grin. “Don’t listen to anything I say if you don’t want to.”

René huffs a laugh. “It is okay. I can use _iel_, but it is new idea, and does not sound right. With my friends in Paris, I change, _il _and _elle_. But I like…I like _they_.”

“Are you okay with me using your correct pronouns around other people?” Napoleon asks. “I don’t want to accidentally out you without your permission.”

He can see René turning the question over in their head. “Yes,” they say eventually. “Yes. People won’t- they will be okay?”

If they are, Napoleon is quite willing to shout at them until he’s hoarse, if it will keep that look of tentative hope on René’s face. He’s still trying to prepare an answer that doesn’t involve him promising too violent a retribution and accidentally scaring René when Cassie speaks up.

“There’s always shitty people out there, but there’s a pretty low concentration here,” she tells René. “The friends that I have who identify as non-binary or genderqueer, or who have changed their pronouns at some point, haven’t had many bad experiences here. I mean, we’re all arts students, and it is true that the queers tend to flock to the arts. Now we just need to team up with the STEM queers and we can defeat the true enemy, the PPE students.”

René blinks. “PPE?”

“Philosophy, politics and economics. It’s what every Prime Minister of this country studied at Oxford or Cambridge. It’s not a real degree.”

“Every degree is a real degree, Cassie,” Napoleon mutters, rubbing at his eyes. “And I’ve told you before, you can’t murder the PPE students. Even if Boris Johnson is one of them.”

He looked down at the work still spread out on the table in front of them. “We have gotten very off track, but that’s fine. Cassie, I need that post-impressionist book I lent you ages ago. It has a very good chapter on Van Gogh’s later works.”

“Ooh, gotta love some late-era Van Gogh,” Cassie says. “Is this for your diss?”

“It is a…review? No, critique, of the idea that Van Gogh’s illness was necessary for him to be creative,” René gets out, stumbling over a few of the words. “And how his institutionalisation helped him make better art. The idea that- that depression is the price for creativity is bullshit.”

“There’s the title for your dissertation,” Napoleon says with a laugh.

“You should quote the Doctor Who episode on Van Gogh,” Cassie says, and René turns eagerly to her.

“That was my favourite one,” they say. “The end, with how it doesn’t change? There is no new art, but they still made it better. Best episode for Matt Smith.”

Napoleon starts tidying up the open books on his table as René and Cassie fall into a discussion about the Matt Smith era of Doctor Who and how he compares to David Tennant. He doesn’t realise that there’s a smile on his face until he catches himself laughing at something Cassie says, a confusing mixture of English and whatever French she can remember.

“Right,” he says as René and Cassie begin to veer seriously off track. “Cassie, I’m kicking you out until you stop mentioning Doctor Who. Go...I don’t know, maybe try writing your PhD thesis? Just a thought.”

Cassie grins at him. “But then how could I torment you with my lack of deadlines?”

“I’m sure you would find a way.” Napoleon stacks up the rest of the books. “I’m going to have to kick you out soon, though. I have a workshop to teach in ten minutes.”

Cassie grabs her bag. “Hey René, there are a few haunts around here that most of the students don’t know about. A few of us tend to work in this little lounge in the upper galleries that the PhD students have claimed for their own. Don’t tell anyone, but we snuck a coffee machine in there. There’s quite a substantial coffee and syrups collection up there.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” Napoleon says dryly.

“I’d say I’ll owe you forever, but I’ve already sold my soul to this place and I have nothing left to fear,” Cassie replies quickly. “Anyway, René. Want to join us? It’s much nicer than the library.”

Napoleon has a hard time keeping the victorious grin off his face when René nods, and starts packing up their bag. The door catches on their coat as it swings shut behind them, and he can still hear Cassie as her and René head off down the hallway. “Solo really is the best,” she is saying, her voice slowly fading out. “You can go in there with no plan and the beginnings of a panic attack, and you’ll leave with a detailed outline and your own checklist system so you can remember what he told you when he’s not there. Anything you need help with, he’ll help you, or find people who can. If you put the effort in, he’ll go all out for you. I don’t know what we’ve done to deserve him.”

The smile somehow stays on his face for hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yup. Everyone is queer in my stories. Can't really help myself. Also, don't worry if you've previously referred to René with he/him pronouns in previous comments, Napoleon made assumptions until he was corrected and it's him you're viewing the story through, so nobody had any idea until now of René's correct pronouns. Napoleon is slowly, maybe just realising that he's a decent person and that there are people around him who he's helped? Just maybe... But Delphine is still around, and as long as she is, Napoleon isn't going to be okay.
> 
> Also, I know that a lot of people have already guessed it, but Alexi was desperately in love with Markos, and that is what drove him to pursue Illya and Napoleon and begin all of this. I haven't forgotten about him! But Illya still isn't in the right place to even think about going to talk to him.
> 
> Hope that everyone is well and safe and looking after themselves and each other. I'm working away on the coffee shop au, so will hopefully be able to keep everyone supplied in fic!


	18. Sandbox

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I handed in my big Masters project report- 12k has never taken me so long to write- and found out that my graduation has been cancelled all in one day today, so forgive these notes for being a little all over the place. Fun fun.
> 
> In other news, I've had sudden bursts of creativity over the past few days (thank you somedrunkpirate for listening to me waffle about story ideas) and now have not only made decent progress on the coffee shop au- it even has a title now!- I have somewhat of a sequel to this story in my head now as well, focused around Dmitri and what happens to him after this story. And an idea for a Witcher fic, though it might take a while before that one happens. Either way, I'm not going anywhere anytime soon (though I suppose none of us are at the moment).
> 
> Anyway, enjoy this chapter! Content warning for someone being somewhat homophobic in the first scene, but don't worry, Napoleon shuts them down pretty quickly.

His phone is buzzing in his pocket. Napoleon pulls it out to see Delphine’s name flashing up on the screen.

He freezes, and someone runs straight into him. A stack of books spills out of their hands and across the floor, joined by Napoleon’s phone, which goes skidding across the wooden floor and smacking into the skirting board.

“Oh, completely my fault,” someone says. “One day I’ll learn to look where I’m going and not stare at a textbook.”

Napoleon crouches down to help gather up the books. “No, I should know better than to stop walking in the middle of the corridor.” He glances over to see Anderson kneeling down next to him, stacking his textbooks back up. It takes him a moment to remember why he is suddenly gripping the textbook in his hands tight enough that his knuckles are going white.

By the time he’s unfrozen, Anderson is reaching for his phone. “Someone is calling- oh, you just missed it,” he says, handing Napoleon’s phone back. “A Delphine, I think?”

Napoleon will call her back. He stands up, half of the books in his arms. “I’ll call her back later.”

Anderson inclines his head and starts walking, clearly expecting Napoleon to fall into step beside him. “My office is only a short way away. If you wouldn’t mind?”

Napoleon follows him, the corners of the bottom textbook digging into the soft flesh of his forearm. “How are you settling in then, chap?” Anderson asks. “How long has it been now, six months or so?”

“Getting closer to two years, actually,” Napoleon replies.

Anderson laughs. “Ah, it all goes past so quickly. You make it a decade here or more, as I have, and you’ll have the same trouble with new people as I do.”

Napoleon just hums. He manages to keep quiet until they make it to Anderson’s office. It’s immaculate compared to his own, walls filled with books and neatly labelled folders. Any spare space on the walls is covered with various diplomas and awards. Napoleon spares them a brief glance as he sets the books in his arms down on Anderson’s desk.

Anderson sees him looking. “Ah yes, those old things. Sometimes I’m not even sure what they’re giving me, I just make sure to smile and shake the hands of the right people. My latest book is on the shortlist for the Phyllis Goodhart Gordan prize.” He sets his own books down. “What of your own publications? Where was your PhD published?”

“I did my PhD partly by article submission and then a shortened thesis,” Napoleon replies absent-mindedly as he stares at the awards framed on the wall. “The articles were published in a variety of places. I was working somewhere else at the time, and did my PhD part time with Cambridge.”

Anderson hums, and Napoleon grits his teeth at the disproving sound. “Well, at least it was Cambridge,” he murmurs. “Why did you end up here in London, then?”

The question of how he ended up at the Cortauld Institute when he obviously wasn’t good enough, or his work of a high enough quality because he did his PhD whilst getting shot at in the middle of nowhere, goes unspoken. Napoleon can hear it anyway.

“My husband and I have lived here for years,” he says eventually. “And we’d moved around a lot before. No point in moving again if we didn’t have to.”

Anderson hums again. “Well, if you ever want a proofread or a recommendation, let me know.”

Napoleon drums his fingers against the table top. “I actually wanted to ask you about one of your tutees,” he says. “René. They’re a transfer student from Sorbonne.”

Anderson has to think about it for a few moments. “Oh yes, I know the one,” he replies. “What about him?”

“Did you know that they were struggling?” Napoleon asks. “With the work all being in English, with no allowance made for their English not being as good as the others. I came across them in the library and offered my help with translation. They’re very capable, and have a brilliant mind. They just needed some help.”

Anderson shrugs. “Oh, well he never came to me,” he says. “What am I supposed to do about it? You seem to have it admirably in hand.”

“They are your personal tutee,” Napoleon says, trying to stop his voice from snapping. “You are responsible for looking after their welfare and ensuring that they are able to do their best at this university.”

Anderson picks up a book from his desk and skims through it. “Look, you haven’t been here long enough to really pick this up. But the students here? They come and they go, and barely any of them are actually good enough for you to get anything out of all the effort you’re putting in with…René, was it? I’m sure he’s a perfectly decent student, but you’ll get so much further if you just focus on your own research and your own career.”

Napoleon feels like the air has been knocked out of his lungs. “Excuse me?”

“Consider it a little friendly advice,” Anderson says, giving Napoleon a tight smile. “Most of the students leave here with a decent degree and proceed to do little with it. It’s not worth the effort to hold their hands through it all, not when it takes time away from your own career.”

Napoleon stares at him. “Look, it’s just some advice,” Anderson says. “Of course, we should teach our respective subjects well. But in the long run, you’ll do best to not get too attached. It’s admirable that you want to help this student, but chances are he’s not the next art history genius. He’s not really worth all that effort.”

There haven’t been many times that Napoleon has found himself speechless. He is the one with the silver tongue, after all, the one meant to be able to talk anyone into anything. And all he can do is stand and stare.

“If that student- René, was it? If he’s failing his classes, then why waste the effort?” Anderson shrugs. “He obviously doesn’t care enough to be here.”

“They.”

Anderson glances up at him. “Pardon?”

“René’s correct pronouns in English are _they_ and _them_,” Napoleon says. It’s hard to keep his voice level, not when he can hear the disdain that coats every word that Anderson says, for the students that they are meant to be teaching and looking out for.

God, a few years ago Napoleon would have started arguing with him the moment he first started talking. Years before that, he would have laughed and stolen his watch or wallet on the way out. Now, he can barely form an argument.

Anderson scoffs. “Kids these days,” he says, shaking his head. “Obviously I have no problem with men being with other men, or women with other women, but this new fad of, what, deconstructing gender? It’s all a bit much, if you ask me.”

“What.”

It’s the only word that gets out through the sheer flood of rage that surges up from somewhere deep in his gut.

Anderson laughs. Napoleon doesn’t know how he’s laughing. “Oh, I’m sure René is just going through a phase,” he says. “He’ll get over it eventually.”

“They.”

“Pardon?”

“They. And _they_ won’t get over it, as you say, because there’s nothing to get over. This is how René identifies. There are their correct pronouns. Not the pronouns they prefer, or the ones they would like you to use. Their _correct_ pronouns. The _correct_ way of addressing _them_. The least you can do is treat them with respect.”

Anderson is staring at him. “Old chap, I think you’re taking this a bit too personally. He’s just a student. He’s barely even passing his classes.”

“_They_ were barely passing their classes because you hadn’t even noticed that they were struggling. And if you’d bothered to check the recent essay mark transcripts, you’d see that they are doing so much better now that someone has actually bothered to put in the effort to help them! René is incredibly smart, but nobody bothered to check in with them and ask them what was wrong, whether there was anything we could do to help them.”

Anderson frowns. “I don’t appreciate you taking that tone with me.”

“I don’t appreciate you not doing your damn job,” Napoleon spits back at him. “René is your student, yours to check in on and help if you can. And instead you’re here, making jokes about how they’re struggling in their classes, about how they’re just going to fail anyway so there’s, what, no point if even trying to help them? That they’re just some student who can be forgotten about in favour of your own career? Bullshit.”

Anderson strides to the door and pulls it open. “I think you should leave.”

“Gladly.”

He’s halfway out the door when his feet stop him. Napoleon turns on his heel, that rage coating his tongue and pulling words up out of the deep coil in his gut. “Actually, no. I’m not finished. Thank fuck I was there in the library that day. Thank fuck I actually gave a shit about why they were struggling. René is doing so much better now because I actually give a fuck about them, about how much effort they have put in to be here and how they deserve to see the rewards from it, and yes, because I give a fuck about using their correct pronouns and making sure that they feel safe and comfortable at this university.”

“Get out,” Anderson spits.

“Gladly,” Napoleon repeats. “I’m going to go back to making sure that all the effort René puts in is rewarded. You don’t seem to give a single fuck about them, so I’ll do it for you.”

He hears the office door slam behind him as he strides out. His hands are curled into fists at his side, and he can barely hear anything above the harsh buzzing in his ears.

That_ prick_. That absolute fucking piece of shit. How dare he treat René like that? Talk about them like they’re not worth anything, like the number of pieces of paper on his wall matter more than his students having breakdowns in the library because they think nobody wants to help them?

How _dare_ he?

There’s an anger thrumming under his skin, restless from the vicious satisfaction at the way Anderson had stared at him in shock. It had been so easy.

“Solo!”

Napoleon turns on his heel as the shout just manages to get through the buzzing of the vicious anger prowling beneath his skin. Joanna is standing in the door of her office. She glances between him and Anderson’s closed office door, only a few feet from her across the hallway.

“Fuck.”

What had he been _thinking_?

Who the hell is he, to talk to Anderson, a revered professor here, like that? He’s barely been here for two years, he doesn’t have a fucking leg to stand on. And Joanna probably heard it all.

“Have time for a quick chat?” she asks, holding her door open. “I just put the kettle on.”

Right. He can deal with this. He can do it. He’s got one hell of a silver tongue, even if he can hear Delphine’s laugh as she calls him rusty. He can twist it so that she doesn’t notice how much of a fucking disgrace he is at his job.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he’s turning towards her. He pulls it out without thinking. Two notifications pop up on the screen.

** _Peril:_ ** _ Flying out to sandbox for next few days, from Oleg. Won’t have phone, will call when back in Moscow. Love you._

Napoleon’s hand clenches around the phone. The edge of it digs into the soft meat of his palm. His eyes skip down to the notification below.

_Missed call: Delphine._

“I’m busy right now,” he says, not looking up from his phone. “I’ll talk to you later.”

He’s not sure if she says anything else. The next thing he knows, he’s in the courtyard outside the Institute, and his thumb is hovering over a name standing out in his contacts.

He presses call.

0-o-0-o-0

God, he’d forgotten how _loud_ military planes are.

They’re only a few hours away from the airbase, the sky slowly turning dark outside as desert flies past beneath them. Illya leans back against the dull grey plane wall, staring at the boxes of cargo stacked up around them. It had been the quickest flight out Oleg had been able to find without sending their own plane out for him, and a known SVR plane flying into what is supposed to be a former, abandoned, Russian intelligence base would definitely be spotted by NATO.

Next to him, Dmitri shifts uneasily, the mission briefing folder clasped in his hands. He flicks it open again after a few minutes, as if reading it one more time will suddenly make answers appear on the page in front of him.

“Why am I here, again?” he asks, his voice barely audible over the loud drone of the plane.

It would have been easier if Illya had left Dmitri behind. He’d had to cajole Oleg, carefully, to let him allow Dmitri to accompany him, and he’d made a number of vague half-promises to Oleg that still leave an uneasy taste in his mouth. It would have been much easier to leave Dmitri behind and conduct Oleg’s mission on his own.

Especially as he knows he will have to disappear for a few hours without Dmitri noticing. Dmitri believes that they’re here to extract information from a known terrorist cell, their compound only a few miles out from the city. And they are. The details are in the file that he’s clutching so tightly. But it’s not everything.

Oleg had pulled Illya into his office yesterday and slapped a file down in front of him. “We’re getting nowhere from here,” he’d outlined, pulling out a series of maps and satellite photos. “I need you on the ground. Speak to that aid worker who they took the information from. According to our information she’s still out there, probably for some stupid self-sacrificial reason. The compound is still occupied, which may also grant additional information. Your cover is that there is information to the whereabouts of the escaped insurgent in the compound, here, which is true, and your secondary objective. There is a spetsnaz team out there, to use as you wish.”

It would have been easier to nod, keep his mouth shut, and get on the plane. But Dmitri was still so quiet, and Illya could see him out of the corner of his eye, watching him when he thought that Illya wasn’t paying attention. Maybe wondering when the other shoe is going to drop.

He couldn’t leave him behind. Not when Zia could tear him apart with a few choice words. Not when Dmitri is still sometimes looking at him like Illya is going to swing a fist at him, when he thinks Illya isn’t looking.

Dmitri is staring openly at him now. “You’re here because I managed to persuade Oleg that it would be good experience for you to see how this is done from the perspective of the SVR, and not the spetsnaz,” Illya answers eventually.

Dmitri snorts. “And because you want to keep an eye on me,” he mutters.

“I want to make sure I don’t come back to Moscow and find you beaten to a bloody pulp because something went wrong when I was away,” Illya says sharply. He softens his voice slightly when he sees the wary look Dmitri gives him. “You’ve had enough time to think about it. Give me an infiltration route without the spetsnaz team.”

“But we have a spetsnaz team,” Dmitri replies. He flips through the papers in his hands, like the personnel sheets for the spetsnaz team in the back of the file had suddenly disappeared when he had looked away. He huffs a brief laugh. “They’re Ivanov’s men. That’ll be interesting.”

“Do we?” Illya asks. “Are they here right now, on this plane? Then we have no guarantee that they will be there when we touch down, and even less that they will be of use. You’re not a soldier anymore, Dmitri, you’re a spy. You need to start thinking like one.”

Dmitri studies the intelligence. Illya can see easily that he doesn’t have a clue.

That was always the problem with the army, with Oleg taking spies from the spetsnaz when the fancy took him. They knew how to survive, but only if they had a balaclava to hide their faces, a semi-automatic rifle in their hands and a grenade or two in their back pocket. Put them in a suit and a ballroom, or somewhere where there was no backup coming for them, and they tended to drown out in the desert sand.

After five minutes of watching the wheels turn in Dmitri’s head, Illya pulls out the compound map from his own file. “Look here,” he says, grabbing a pen and resting the map on the cargo crate across from them.

It’s easy enough to circle the exits and entrances to the compound, comparing with satellite photos to see which entrances would be easy to access, where there are locks or increased guard patrols. “There’s always a path in,” Illya mutters between the pen cap between his teeth as he sketches quick diagrams on the map. “Especially with places like this, where they aren’t paranoid billionaire arms dealers with more hired muscle and security cameras than vintage cars. Think about the potential weaknesses. These compounds are more than potential intelligence in safes or the number of insurgents here. What do they do with the trash? Where do they keep the vehicles? Where is laundry done?”

He hands Dmitri the map and the pen. “Think like a spy, not a soldier.”

Dmitri snorts. “Think like a thief, more like,” he mutters. “I don’t know how the hell you saw all that so quickly.”

“Practice,” Illya says pointedly. “And getting it wrong a good few times. Just make sure you don’t get it wrong enough to get yourself killed before you get it right.”

The hot air hits them like a brick wall as they step off the plane, spotlights blinding as they pinpoint them, out on the tarmac. Illya raises a hand, and the spotlights shut off.

“This place used to be a Soviet listening station, during the cold war,” he says as he leads Dmitri towards the shadowed buildings. “It was overrun by the FSA about five years ago, I think, but recaptured a few years later. To everyone else, it has been decommissioned.” He cuts through the dusty quad, the earth still pockmarked and scorched in places. A patrol of three soldiers watch them go, rifles resting easy in their hands.

It’s been a while since he was last here, and they have added some new surveillance building poorly disguised as an ammunitions bunker, but the layout is the same. Illya has stepped foot on countless bases like this one, tucked away in deserts or halfway up a mountain, buried into the side of a hill or inside an office building walked past by thousands every day. They’re all as predictable as each other.

Dmitri is silent as Illya finds them an unoccupied dorm room. Two rickety beds are shoved up against each wall. This far into the desert there is no need for mosquito nets, but Illya still tosses Dmitri a can of bug repellent. “Spray your bunk down. You’ll thank me for it later.”

A quick glance out of the cracks in the boards over the one window show two soldiers wandering slowly past about sixty metres away. They’re walking too slowly for a patrol, and are far from one of the normal paths. They’re too far away for Illya to be able to recognise them, but the way they stand rings a quiet familiarity in the back of his head.

Spetsnaz, then. Or SVR agents disguised as spetsnaz. There’s not much point worrying about what they might do, not when Oleg’s orders saturate every step Illya takes here. If they’ve been out here for as long as most people end up posted out here, then any new arrival is worth some interest.

The taste of dust is familiar in his mouth. He tried to count, once, tried to add up the days he’s spent with sand shifting underneath his feet instead of cold Moscow roads, the nights he’s spent shivering in the dead of night, the cold metal of his rifle biting at his hands, not even seeing the stars because there are enemy insurgents somewhere and in the absolute black of the night, there’s no way to see where they might be. He gave up eventually. The days had blurred together so easily, surrounded by nothing but dunes. Afghanistan tastes bitter, the Sahara tastes of earth and dirt, and the Atacama tastes so much of salt that after a few hours he would have done anything for a sip of water.

Syria, the one that still wakes him up in the middle of the night with blood slick on his hands and the air still smelling of cordite, Syria has always tasted of metal.

Illya breathes in until the taste dissipates, and pulls out his rifle to clean. After a pause, Dmitri starts on his own.

“So, what now?” he asks eventually, hunched over his rifle with a cloth in his hand. There’s cordite staining his fingers, and a smear across his face where he must have forgotten and rubbed at his forehead.

“The support team is probably on site,” Illya says, peering down the barrel of his rifle as he holds it up to the one weak light in the room, trying to spot any cordite left in the barrel. He puts it back down and picks up his tools again, threading a piece of cloth through the little metal needle. The needle is connected to a long piece of cord with a weight at the end, that he drops down the barrel of the rifle. “I’ll talk to them in the morning,” he says as he catches the weight at the other end and starts to pull the needle through. “They know we’ve arrived, probably, but there’s no point waking them up now when we won’t be ready to move until tomorrow night.”

Dmitri sets his rifle down on the jacket he’s spread out for a drop cloth. “I didn’t- I meant for…everything else.”

Illya catches the needle as it falls out, the cloth stained with cordite. “I don’t know yet,” he says, and it’s only half a lie. “One step at a time, I suppose.”

Dmitri snorts. “Don’t,” he mutters. “I never want to hear that story again.”

“What story?”

“The one of the men who walked out of a gulag?” Dmitri starts reassembling his rifle, the firing pin briefly screeching as it catches. “My commander was fond of it,” he says. “Even though I’m fairly sure it isn’t true. Six men apparently escaped from a Siberian gulag during the Second World War, and walked all the way to India, which was under British control at the time. Through the Gobi Desert, Tibet and the Himalayas. According to my commander, when one was asked how they did it, they said that they just put one foot in front of the other. One step at a time, all the way to India.”

Illya hums. “I was too close to the remnants of the Soviet Union for them to be telling us stories of people escaping gulags. But I can see the point of it.” He sets his rifle aside, leaning back against the pockmarked wall behind him. “I can’t even remember the number of stories I heard about Stalingrad and Kursk that I heard, growing up and in the army.”

“Yeah, but how many of them were true?” Dmitri mutters.

Illya glares at him. “Think of where we are,” he warns. “Be more careful about what you say, and assume that everyone is listening. They probably are.”

Dmitri bows his head, chewing his lip as he clicks the last pieces of his rifle back into place. “But yes,” Illya finds himself saying after a few seconds, breaking the silence of the desert heat slowly giving way to a freezing night outside their scarred little barracks. “I don’t think much of what we were told was true.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are slowly inching our way towards the end! It's getting there, though both of them need a bit of a push to get to where they need to be.
> 
> René really has someone in their corner now, even if Napoleon doesn't realise it himself. And Dmitri is slowly getting through to Illya and getting the stories he so desperately wants to hear. They're all slowly converging towards the end now.
> 
> The story of six men walking their way out of a Siberian gulag is a common one, but probably not true- Bear Grylls, an ex-SAS soldier who does those survival shows, likes to use it as an example of how to keep going, which is where I first heard it.
> 
> Because I always forget to mention this, my tumblr is theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com, which I'm pretty active on (though it is an unorganised mess). I recently wrote a short little oneshot sequel to my Tour de France AU, through field where sunlight streams after a prompt from yavemiel, which is up there. I'll get around to uploading it here eventually, but if you can't wait then it's over on my tumblr!
> 
> As always, comments are much much loved and appreciated, and if you're reading this, you're amazing.


	19. Somika

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We are slowly inching towards the end now, but Illya and Dmitri have a bit more still to do in the middle of the desert before they can go back to Moscow...

They leave the support team behind the brow of the hill.

The desert is hard to disappear into, even at night. Illya follows the lines of the dunes as they drop down towards the compound, letting the shifting sands lead him. Dmitri is nearly silent behind him, but not quite. Spetsnaz training is comprehensive, but it can’t compare to the years Illya has spent running through the dunes of every desert, the taste of metal on his tongue.

It can’t compare to the years spent skidding down dunes as Napoleon shows him just how he had managed to survive running from the US army in the middle of a desert, and how he’d made a career of it later.

Illya pushes those thoughts from his mind. There’s no place for them here. Not when he doesn’t know if there’s even a place to go back to. If Napoleon will forgive him for doing this, for being here, for not being able to walk away when he all but promised that he would be able to walk away again.

Dmitri skids the last few feet behind him, coming to a stop just behind Illya and dropping into a low crouch. Night vision goggles cover one half of his face. “Two guards patrolling on walls,” he whispers. “Another on compound roof.” He pulls his rifle forwards, sighting through the scope. “Could make the shot. We down the ones on the wall, draw attention this way. Slip around the side whilst they’re busy, get inside over the wall.”

Illya is watching the patrol through his own scope, but he reaches over with one hand to hit Dmitri on the shoulder. “Think like a spy,” he reminds him.

In this case, think like a thief.

They wait there, until their rifles are biting into their hands with the cold. They don’t move. They don’t talk. Illya watches the men patrol, matches up figures highlighted in green in the night vision scope to the reports in his head until he knows exactly how they’re going to find their way in.

They are impossible to spot as they move in, heavy rifles left behind and hidden in scrub in favour of pistols and knives strapped to their thighs. The lockpicks, their normal sheen dulled with dark paint, make quick enough work of the rusty lock on one of the small, unnoticed doors that Illya knows they only use to take out the rubbish once every other week.

Illya doesn’t even remember where he got these lockpicks, as he slips them back into an inner pocket and pulls the door open an inch. Dmitri levels his pistol at the gap. They wait.

“Clear,” Dmitri murmurs.

They move in.

The inside is a mess of stacked crates, canned food and bottled water piled high next to spare magazines and ammunition. Illya carefully takes stock of the amount of firepower they have stored. The intelligence reports had underestimated it by at least a third.

Dmitri signals him, and lifts the corner of a tarpaulin. Even in the dark, everything highlighted in neon green from the night vision, Illya can make out the familiar shapes of dark green military-issued crates, long and thin. Dmitri glances at the door, then grips a light in his hand and turns it on, muffling most of the red light until only the faintest beam escapes.

There is writing stamped across the top of the crate Illya can see. It’s in Cyrillic.

Dmitri takes up a station at the internal door, pistol in place, as Illya steps forwards to look at them. He doesn’t open them, or touch them. These crates have locking mechanisms on them that are difficult and time-consuming to disarm, and it’s hard to hide any traces of tampering. And he’s not sure he wants to risk blowing this place up by disarming the weapons themselves.

He can’t open the crates, but he doesn’t need to do that to know that these are ground-to-air missiles. And that they’re Russian.

Dmitri spits a silent curse, still standing beside the door. Illya fights down the shame and anger battling each other as they try to grip at his throat. He pulls the tarpaulin down. “We keep going. We do what we came here to do and we get out.”

“One step at a time,” Dmitri murmurs to himself. He checks the door again, and eases it open. “Ready.”

“Ready.”

They move through the compound like ghosts. Illya unlocks doors and Dmitri covers him, moving together with the familiarity of people who have had the same training beaten into them. The place isn’t well guarded inside. Somehow, they make it to the right room without coming across a single person.

Dmitri guards the door as Illya, torch covered by his hand to emit only the faintest light to see by, starts to go through the desk. The files are all encoded, but he flips them open and takes pictures of them anyway. Time after time he’s found the crucial piece of information needed to solve the mission in some throwaway line halfway through some dense report that nobody else would have read.

Dmitri stands completely still, scanning the hallway through a crack in the door. The compound is quiet around them, the only sound the rustling of paper as Illya flips from page to page.

A dog barks as Illya is putting the last files back and turns towards the computer. He freezes, switching the torch off instantly and pulling out his gun. Dmitri brings his pistol up, watching carefully through a crack in the door. They wait.

Illya’s grip on the butt of his pistol is almost painful. He can feel his heart pounding in his throat. He needs the best route out of the compound if this comes down to a firefight. He has to get Dmitri out of here. If they find somewhere to bottleneck the enemy’s entrance then they can pick them off easily, maybe collect some better firepower. Grenades will block off their retreat after them effectively. If there are enemy on the wall then it will be more difficult, but there is sufficient cover heading through the south of the compound, and there is a small door there that will open with enough firepower. By that point, Illya will have been able to call the spetsnaz team that are waiting over the hill and then he can cover Dmitri as they retreat.

It should work. If they are found, it should work.

Illya’s grip is tight on the butt of his gun. He offers up a silent apology to Napoleon.

They wait.

The dog stops barking, and nothing else happens. There are no insurgents running down the hallway towards them, no sound of frantic assembly of soldiers out in the yard. Everything stays quiet.

“Let’s finish and get out,” Illya whispers. He takes out the flash drive Oleg had given him and plugs it into the computer. It only takes a few moments to wake the computer up, and then under a minute for the algorithm on the drive, with a little prompting from him, to start working.

Dmitri glances away from his watch on the hallway. “Ten percent,” Illya murmurs, not looking away from the bar slowly crawling its way across the screen.

Dmitri turns back to the crack in the door. He adjusts the grip on his gun.

“Twenty.”

The dog barks again. Once, and then twice. Someone shouts at it outside. The sound is muffled and indistinct. He can’t tell if they’re alarmed or just annoyed at the dog. They’re too far away. Is anyone else waking up? Are they going to do a sweep of the compound, just to check?

“Forty.”

He takes a breath. Now is not the time to panic. Now is really not the time to do anything but the job he knows he can do.

“Fifty.”

“Sixty.”

Come on. _Come on_. Just a little more now. They can hold off a little more now.

“Seventy.”

He doesn’t want to have to fight his way out of this. He doesn’t want to go back to Napoleon with gunpowder stains on his hands, doesn’t want Napoleon to know that he wasn’t brave enough to walk away without going straight back to what he had been.

“Eighty.”

He’ll just have ended up exactly where he was, without Napoleon. If this turns into a firefight.

“Ninety.”

He doesn’t want Dmitri to have to do this. Not if there’s another way.

Just a little further. Just a few more seconds. Please.

The bar fills and the screen goes dark again. Illya snatches the drive back and seals it in a pocket. “Let’s move. Same extraction route.”

Dmitri just nods, slowly pulls the door open, and silently stalks down the corridor. Illya follows. The door clicks shut behind them, the sound seeming to reverberate in the silence.

They don’t wait to see if anyone heard. They keep moving.

The compound is a maze of endless hallways, shapes looming up at them out of the dark as they run. Illya drops into a crouch and sights around the corner, the next one in a long list of corners and hallways and stairs. It’s empty as far as he can see, the end of it disappearing into darkness. He beckons Dmitri forwards.

They’re halfway down when the sound of a door creaking open freezes them in their tracks. Illya turns, gun raised.

A child wanders out of the room, clutching a blanket that trails behind them. They can’t be older than three, still unsteady on their legs. They stare up at Illya and Dmitri with wide eyes.

Dmitri raises his pistol. Illya reaches out and pushes it back down.

“Hello, little one,” he says. His Arabic is a little rusty, but it’s enough. He crouches down, hiding his pistol behind his back. “Hello.”

The child stares back at him, clutching a corner of their blanket to their mouth. “Hello,” Illya says again. “Why are you out of bed, little one?”

“Somikka?” the child asks quietly, clutching their blanket to them.

A half-buried memory slowly surfaces in Illya’s mind. Him and Napoleon, lying completely still in the sand and staring down at the town spread out below them. He was watching through the scope of his sniper rifle, Napoleon with a little hand-held scope next to him, spotting for him. They had watched as a small group of young men, bizarrely dressed in masks and carrying wooden swords, ran down the street and to the front door of a house. Illya had adjusted the rifle scope to watch as the young men picked up a child and ran around the yard with it, someone watching on from the front door.

Illya was half ready to pick one of the men and send a warning shot, but Napoleon had spotted what he was watching. “It’s their version of Halloween,” he’d murmured. “The men are meant to scare the children into fasting. They’re called Somikka.”

Illya realises he’s wearing a balaclava, his face hidden in shadow. To a child, just woken, and at the right time of year, it makes sense.

He bares his teeth. “Good little children should be in bed, should they not? You should run along to bed, little one, before Somikka decides you haven’t been good enough.”

He stares the child down. For a moment, one that steals his breath and makes Dmitri shift nervously behind him, the child just stares back. And then they turn and shuffle slowly back into the room.

Illya lets his head drop for a second, swallowing the sick feeling slowly setting into his stomach. He resists the urge to holster his pistol. “We keep moving.”

“Illya-”

“Move.”

Illya’s hands shake as he locks the final door behind them, the lockpicks clinking against each other. The sound echoes in the night. Dmitri’s grip tightens on the butt of his pistol as he aims it up at the wall above them.

The door locks. They disappear back into the desert, vanishing amongst the dunes. There is no alarm raised. No shouts coming from the compound, no barking dogs or spotlights picking them out amongst the sand. They make it back to where their rifles were stashed. Nobody follows.

Illya still can’t shake the sick feeling now beginning to climb its way up his throat. He back-slings his rifle. “Well done,” he gets out.

“I thought we were done for when that kid appeared,” Dmitri mutters. They begin to pick their way back up the dune, keeping low against the sand. “What was that?”

“Somikka. Assyrian folklore.” Illya swallows around the bile in his throat.

“I half thought it was going to devolve into a firefight,” Dmitri continues. He glances behind them at the compound, barely visible anymore. “That would have been messy.”

Illya throws up.

He can see Dmitri hovering out of the corner of his eye and he spits into the sand. “Fuck.”

He hadn’t meant to do that. He’d had it under control, he’d managed to corral thoughts of firefights in a compound likely filled with kids. But it was the way Dmitri had said it. How he’d complained about it being _messy_.

“Don’t,” he growls as Dmitri starts nervously towards him. He kicks the sand around until there’s no evidence of them being there. “Keep going.”

The support team is waiting over the hill. There’s a moment when Illya thinks they might shoot them just to make a point about being left behind, but they lower their rifles once they see who it is. Illya tries not to stumble as he makes it down the other side of the hill. His mouth tastes disgusting, he can’t stop thinking about exactly what might have happened if that kid had opened their mouth and screamed, and Dmitri won’t stop hovering nervously behind him.

He has to stop, pretending to check his rifle, to swallow around the sudden nausea trying to force its way back up his throat. Dmitri’s hovering intensifies.

Illya glares at him until he backs off. “Move out,” he snaps at the support team. “Let’s get the fuck out of here.”

The jeeps are waiting further down the hill, two soldiers guarding them. Illya wants to curl up against the door and press his head against the glass until all he can feel is the shuddering of the jeep around him, wants to disappear and be back in his bed in London with Napoleon curled up beside him and murmuring nothings until everything is quiet enough for him to slowly fall asleep.

A sudden pang of homesickness hits deep into his chest. He breathes through it.

A water bottle is pressed into his hands, and Illya looks up to see Dmitri passing it over, trying hard not to look worried. Their driver, the only other person in their jeep, glances briefly in the rearview mirror and then focuses back on their surroundings.

Illya pulls his rifle closer over his knees and washes the taste of bile out of his mouth. “We contact Oleg in the morning,” he says quietly to Dmitri. “This should be enough.”

Dmitri nods. “And then back to Moscow.”

Illya nods. He very carefully doesn’t think about the aid worker only a few dozen miles away in Al-Harra, and the jeep that he’s already signed for to get him there.

God, he can’t do this. He shouldn’t be doing this.

0-o-0-o-0

Illya is silent in the back of the jeep, rifle on his lap. Dmitri watches him carefully out of the corner of his eye as they wind their way through the desert. Occasionally he takes a sip from the water, and each time Dmitri tries hard not to think about what Illya remembered that might make him throw up in the middle of the desert.

He knows he’s young, but he’s not naïve. He was spetsnaz for six years, and has been SVR for nearly one now. He’s seen enough to be able to imagine what Illya might have been thinking of. He’s heard enough stories, even accounting for the ones that definitely aren’t true, to get a glimpse of what those things might have been.

He’d never imagined, when he’d try to think of himself ten years down the line and still alive, that someone like Illya could still be standing. That someone, after everything that Dmitri has heard of happening to him, could still find an angry kid in a gym and decide to help.

It’s not going to last forever. It can’t, not with what he’s done. Dmitri might as well make the most of it whilst he still can.

They’ve only been driving for ten or so minutes, the jeeps slipping down sandy hills and then struggling back up the other side, when the lead jeep slams abruptly to a stop. Dmitri jolts forwards, just barely able to catch himself against the back of the driver’s seat. “What is it?” he asks, grabbing his rifle. The car behind them fishtails and slams to a stop just behind them, and Dmitri sees the spetsnaz agents in the cars around them jump out and fan out around them, rifles raised.

“Trouble up ahead,” their driver says shortly. He grabs his own rifle. “There’s another- there’s two cars? No, three. They don’t look like insurgents, though.”

Illya clambers through from the back of the car to the front to get a better view, and Dmitri ducks out of the back door to cover him. The track they are on intersects with others at a crossroads up ahead. A number of military jeeps are surrounding it. The headlights from each car light up the crossroads, and silhouette the multiple people very purposefully not levelling weapons at each other from three different roads.

“Shit,” Illya mutters. “Right. Dmitri, with me. Vanya, stay in the car. Be ready to drive.”

Dmitri scrambles out, falling into position behind him and bringing his rifle up to his shoulder. Illya puts his hand out. “Careful,” he murmurs. “This is going to be…delicate. Running in and shooting is _not_ a good idea.”

“I could have worked that one out,” Dmitri mutters to him, but he lowers his rifle anyway. Illya knows better than him, has had well over a decade more experience than him. He got them out of the compound without it devolving into a firefight, he can get them out of whatever this situation is.

“They aren’t insurgents,” Illya says, shouldering his own rifle and striding forwards towards the crossroads. “If they were, everyone would be shooting at everyone else already. And look at the squadron placements. Three separate groupings of jeeps, three separate groupings of people, all trying to stare down each other.”

Dmitri studies the people slowly coming into view, still mostly silhouettes against the headlights. “The cars are military,” he says quietly. “Different types, and disguised, but they look military. Not the shoddy pick-up trucks that the insurgents in this area prefer. Who are they?”

“We’ll find out,” Illya says, and he walks straight into the middle of the stand-off.

Half of the rifles swing towards them, and it’s a hard time for Dmitri to resist bringing his rifle up to answer as he shadows Illya at his shoulder. Illya turns in a slow circle. “Let me guess. Golden Division Iraqi SOF, Israeli Mossad, and…” He studies the last group for a long moment. “American SF. You always wear the exact same scarfs out on missions when you’re not wearing those green berets you have a somewhat unhealthy attachment to.”

“Spetsnaz,” one of the Americans drawls. “Fancy seeing you all the way out here. Right around where your supposedly decommissioned base is. What a coincidence.”

“Interesting,” Illya replies. “You’re not meant to have one in this region either. It’s almost like we’re working for secret agencies with their own agendas.” He glances around at the groups of soldiers. “Why are we all here?”

“We wouldn’t be,” the American drawls, “if _some_ people would realise that we were here first and have jurisdiction here. Our mission comes first.”

“You have no jurisdiction,” spits one of the Iraqi soldiers. “This is our job.”

“Like hell it is,” a Mossad soldier snaps, and then everyone is beginning to raise their rifles again. Dmitri shifts behind Illya’s shoulder, trying to get as many of them as he can in view. It’s unlikely that anyone will actually start shooting, but this is a precarious situation. He risks a glance behind them. Their cars are close behind them, and are fully armoured jeeps which will provide good enough cover. The spetsnaz are surrounding them, fanned out to keep an eye on their surroundings.

He studies the different soldiers as they all start trying to talk over each other. The Mossad agents are the quietest, the Americans the loudest. The Iraqis appear to be the most territorial about the mission, but the Americans are arguing most about the importance of whatever they’re trying to do. Dmitri tries to pin down who might make the first move, if there is going to be one, but he can’t quite tell.

Illya cuts through what is slowly devolving into shouting. “Enough,” he says sharply, command layered into his voice that makes even Dmitri straighten. “Has anybody tried to raise their commands?”

“Ain’t getting through,” one of the Americans mutters, a boxy radio on their back. “To someone who can actually give us answers, at least.”

“We can deal with this ourselves,” a Mossad soldier snaps. The Iraqis are silent.

Illya looks like he’s trying very hard not to roll his eyes. Dmitri slowly lowers his weapon.

“Right,” Illya says. “Well, none of us are going anywhere until this is fixed and we all get what we want. Personally, my colleague here and I would like to go back and get some rack time, but if we leave then all of you will probably just stand here for another few hours.” He back-slings his rifle. “So, what does everyone want?”

“Why are you suddenly in charge?” a Mossad soldier asks. He steps forwards. Dmitri counters him, bringing the butt of his rifle back up to his shoulder.

“Dmitri,” Illya murmurs, putting a hand out. Dmitri backs up a little.

Illya’s entire demeanour has changed. Dmitri has watched him working in Lubyanka, or out on the streets of Moscow. He knows what he’s doing, ignores the stares and whispers when walking through the halls and approaches Dmitri’s training with a silent focus that makes Dmitri want to do anything he can to get it right. But everything is different, here in the middle of the desert. Illya isn’t silent anymore, isn’t looking like he had in the back of the jeep. Everyone is looking to him now. Everyone, even if they don’t seem to realise it yet, is following his lead.

“As for why I’m in charge?” Illya asks. “Firstly, I am not spetsnaz.”

“SVR, then,” the American spits. “And your buddies look spetsnaz enough for all of you. Bunch of commie bastards, aren’t you?”

“Who’s in command of each team? What are your names?” Illya asks, even as Dmitri bristles and tries to resist the urge to punch the American.

“Jones,” the American doing most of the talking answers. Dmitri tries not to laugh out loud at the sheer banality of the name.

“Dahan,” the lead Mossad soldier replies. From what Dmitri knows of Mossad agents, the name is probably fake. Illya doesn’t seem bothered by it.

“Bakir,” the Iraqi commander answers. “Who are you?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

Dmitri notices a stir run through most of the soldiers assembled. A small part of him not concentrating on the situation fights the urge to grin. Even these people have heard of Illya. They know what he’s capable of.

“Dmitri, take these soldiers and secure the area,” Illya says over his shoulder, gesturing at the various teams standing around. “Unless anyone has any objections?”

The various commanders remain quiet. Dmitri gathers the rest of the soldiers and establishes a moving perimeter around the area. He doesn’t quite know how to feel about these older, more experienced soldiers getting a nod from their commanders and then just following him. It’s a heady thing. But he doesn’t deserve this. He’s barely deserving of what he’s got now, especially ever since Illya came to Moscow and decided he was apparently worth something.

He isn’t going to tell Illya that he’s wrong, but he is. It probably won’t be too long before Illya finds out and realises it. He’s just got to keep getting the most out of this now, whilst he still can.

Whilst he still has some semblance of freedom left.

When he comes back, Illya has pulled their jeep forwards and spread a map out on the bonnet. Jones, Dahan and Bakir are crowded around it, in the middle of what looks to be slowly turning into another heated argument. Illya holds up a hand. “You all have autonomy over your missions,” he says, speaking in English. “Enough to adapt to situations like this. As long as you complete your objectives, does it matter if you work adjacent to each other to do so?”

He gestures Dmitri over. “How’s your Arabic?”

“Good enough,” Dmitri replies, slowly turning and surveying the area around them. He can just about see the furthest soldiers in the perimeter, watching from the above hill.

“Translate for me, when Bakir needs you to,” Illya says over his shoulder. “Now. Jones, stop lying to me and be honest about your objectives here. It is going to make everyone’s lives a lot easier.”

“I don’t see why I need to-”

“The last time I was involved with something where information was withheld, it was in Pakistan,” Illya says. Dmitri winces. He’s heard that story. A version of it, at least. If even half of it is true then it was a complete clusterfuck, as the Americans would say. He still hasn’t persuaded Illya to tell him what really happened. When he’d brought it up, Illya’s face had turned to stone and he’d made Dmitri spar with him again until Dmitri hadn’t been able to move from exhaustion. He hadn’t been brave enough to ask about it again.

“I don’t appreciate being lied to,” Illya says. “It makes my job a lot harder, and it’s going to make yours impossible in a few seconds.” He stares him down.

Jones looks away first. “Fine,” he mutters. “Fuck it, not like this entire thing hasn’t gone tits up already.” He leans over the map. “Anybody got a pencil?”

Dahan hands one to him reluctantly. “I want that back.”

They descend back to arguing. Dmitri stands to one side, occasionally interjecting in Arabic for Bakir, and he watches Illya in something close to approaching awe. Illya seamlessly directs the argument to where it needs to go, negotiating easily between the three commanders, and everyone lets him. Everyone quiets down when he starts to speak, turn to him when they start to clash. Dmitri watches, and listens, and tries not to think whether he could ever reach this.

It takes hours. Dmitri walks the perimeter twice, checking in with each group of soldiers as they patrol. There’s nothing out there but the sound of sand slowly creeping across the desert. With the current wind speed, Dmitri estimates that it’ll only be a few hours before any trace of them disappears.

Finally, Illya is erasing all the marks made on the map and rolling it up, and the commanders are recalling their teams. “We’re leaving,” he says firmly. “I hope that you can all keep to this plan once I’m gone. I’m sure I will hear about it, one way or another.”

With that, Illya gets back in the jeep. Dmitri scrambles after him, nearly hitting himself in the head with his rifle as he clambers into the back. “Do you think they’ll keep to it?”

Illya huffs a tired laugh. “No. Absolutely not. But they probably won’t deviate enough to do any severe damage. With these sorts of negotiations, it’s very unlikely that the plan is fully followed through, especially if nobody is there to…corral them. But the plan is there, and it’s in their heads. Even if they try to change it, they’ll be changing it from what they know. Some of it will stay, and hopefully it’ll be the parts of the plan that matter.”

They start driving again, and Dmitri twists in his seat to watch the other jeeps disappear behind them. “How did you do that?” he asks quietly. “I thought that they were going to start shooting each other at the beginning.”

Illya shrugs. “You appeal to what they actually want, which is usually to get the job done as quickly as possible and with minimal injuries. You don’t let them try and get distracted by going at each other or insulting each other, and you hold them all to the same account. With something like that, overlapping objectives that don’t quite match, you have to get them telling the truth and not trying to leverage for what they want.”

“It’s incredible,” Dmitri says, not able to help himself.

Illya shrugs again. He looks like he’s muffling a yawn. “I’ve had to talk myself out of a lot of situations. You just…turn it around. Talk yourself into something until what you have to say is too important to be ignored.”

By the time they make it back to the base, the sun is slowly starting to crawl over the hills and spill across the desert. Dmitri has stayed alert for the drive back, watching the desert around them from the back of the jeep, but as soon as they get inside the base and their tiny bunk room, exhaustion sinks deep into his bones.

“Get some sleep,” Illya says, kicking his own boots off and setting his rifle next to his bunk. “I’ll find out when we’re flying out, but it won’t be until the evening.” He pauses, and Dmitri pushes himself up on his bed.

“You did well,” Illya says eventually. “In the compound, and then after. Kept calm and didn’t start shooting at the first thing that went wrong, which is more than I can say for most people back in Moscow.”

It’s like pulling teeth. Dmitri snorts. “I thought we were screwed when that kid appeared,” he replies.

Illya’s face goes blank. “Not really, though,” Dmitri says quickly. He knows he’s done something wrong, but he has no idea what it is that has made Illya look like he’s retreated inside his own head like this. “I mean, I knew you’d have a way out of it.”

The glare that Illya suddenly fixes on him makes Dmitri flinch back. “Don’t,” Illya snaps. “I made a guess, in that compound, and somehow it paid off. That kid could have just as well screamed for its mother, and then we might both be dead.”

“Those guesses pay off more often than not. And they’re not really guesses. You’re incredible at this.”

“I am _lucky_,” Illya snarls. “And you have no idea how many of my guesses have paid off and how many have left me alive by the skin of my teeth because I’ve made mistakes that nearly killed me, or that killed someone else.”

Dmitri forces himself to stay still, the echo of a snarling voice and a raised fist dissipating and leaving a sour tang in his mouth. “Then tell me what actually happened,” he hears himself say. “All of it.”

Illya’s mouth twists. “All of it would take months. And a lot of vodka, for some of it.”

“What about Pakistan?” Dmitri asks. He immediately wishes he hadn’t, the way that Illya’s entire body jolts and his face goes blank again.

“Pakistan?” Illya asks, his voice quiet. He’s silent for a long moment. “Pakistan was…I thought I was dead. I thought _Napoleon_ was dead. I thought that we were all going to get killed over someone’s hubris and the inability of people like us to just fucking tell the truth.”

“What happened?”

Illya sits up on the bed, staring at the boarded-up window. “I’m not going to tell you all of it,” he says quietly. “Some of it…” He laughs, twisted and bitter. “It might scare you off forever.”

Echoes flash through him, of a hand raising a belt high up in the air, his own hand poking at bruises in the mirror, whispers and taunts following him through school hallways until another boy is underneath him and his face is a bloody mess.

He remembers the first time he heard the story. _Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin._ If he thinks hard enough, he thinks he can just remember the vicious hope that had twisted itself in his chest and was set alight, just from hearing of someone who had come out the other side.

He raises his head. “I won’t be scared away. Tell me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, Dmitri, you poor thing. I think it was around this point, writing his pov for the first time, that I really fell in love with his character. He just wants to do the right thing and he is in absolutely the worst place to try and do that, and he has never had any choice in getting to this point. No wonder he idolises Illya so much.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much, much loved and welcomed, especially in this very stressful time. Hope you're all safe and well and looking after yourselves and your families. Love you all.


	20. Butterflies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, we're getting close. We're getting so close. There are just a few more threads to tease out for another chapter, but we are getting so so close to some of my favourite scenes I've written in this entire series. We're back to Napoleon for a bit, and Gaby as well- I wanted to write her more into this story, but this thing was already so long!
> 
> For people who has expressed interest in a Dmitri-focused sequel, I'm super happy that you have, because I have a lot of thoughts about the poor boy and he definitely deserves a bit more of his story being told! The story is going to end up mostly focused on Dmitri (and an OC currently called Jack who I won't explain much more about for spoilers), though Napoleon and Illya will of course be there. I'm also planning some shorter oneshots in this series, just to add little pieces here and there. If there is anything you are dying to know more about, just let me know! I thrive off people yelling at me in comments, and if any of you follow me over on tumblr at theheirofashandfire.tumblr.com and noticed the... dischorse cowboy AU going on in the last couple days that spawned a few pages of fic from me, you'll know how easy it is to get me to write something if you just yell ideas at me enough!

The days are a blur. He sleeps, and dreams of ballrooms and long, long hallways. Sometimes there’s someone else walking quietly beside him, those ridiculous fur-lined gloves she’d always favoured just visible out of the corner of his eye. If he tries to turn and look at her, she disappears, and he’s staring at a painting or a sculpture or a piece of art he can’t quite remember, the artist’s name just beyond his reach, tangled in a blur of brushstrokes and marble.

He wakes, and finds names on his lips.

His phone rings every so often. Sometimes he answers, wanting nothing more than to step out of the Institute and outside of his skin as she laughs over the line, her voice still echoing in his head from those dreams and just managing to drown out the screams he can still here in the empty spaces between here and Moscow. Sometimes he doesn’t even see it until hours later, when his students have left and René has gone home with another shy smile on their face as they watch their marks slowly climb up to where they should be. He can’t tell which he prefers.

An arm linking through his jolts him from his thoughts. “What do you think?”

Napoleon stares down at Gaby. “Sorry, what was the question?”

Gaby nudges him in the side, but she doesn’t let go, and it quiets the roaring in Napoleon’s mind for a moment. “Which exhibit, idiot. We can’t just stand here and absorb all the information in here by osmosis.”

Napoleon takes the flyer for the Natural History Museum out of her hand. He doesn’t actually have any idea what exhibits are on. “The zoology collection looks interesting.”

Gaby pulls a face. “I don’t particularly want to spend my hard-won free afternoon staring at pickled animals, but if it floats your boat…”

Napoleon tips his head back to stare up at the museum roof. It’s half obscured by the massive dinosaur fossilised skeleton that stretches out above him. A cheerful plaque at his feet proclaims it as Dippy the Diplodocus. It’s over a hundred and fifty million years old.

Gaby snatches the pamphlet from his hands. “Let’s go look at butterflies,” she says, beginning to march Napoleon across the museum floor and towards one of the grand staircases at one side of the massive entrance hall, sunlight streaming through the arched roof and setting the ancient stones around them alight. In the afternoon, the grey skies over London parting for a brief moment, the hall gleams.

“Butterflies?” Napoleon asks. He lets her take him up the stairs and to the balcony above the hall. His hand trails over the balustrade, the stone cool beneath his fingertips.

How many halls like this has he stood in? How many has he cased, how many blueprints and building plans are still locked away somewhere in his head?

“Butterflies are underestimated,” Gaby insists. “Did you know they like decaying human flesh? And that they’re very commonly found in mass graves? And that some of them like to drink tears of animals to get the sodium they need?”

Napoleon stares down at her. “I’m not even going to ask how you know that.”

Gaby shrugs. “I like knowing things,” she says. “Now, butterflies. Let’s go.”

Gaby has always liked collecting knowledge. At first it was cars, because cars were all she had for all those years in Berlin, but then in the workshops in UNCLE her expertise expanded until Napoleon can’t even begin to guess at the topics which she could talk for hours about.

He once spent two hours listening to her talk in tangents about the application of semiconductors in quantum computing, and how if anyone could make a room temperature superconductor then they would become a billionaire overnight and revolutionise the way electricity is used and distributed.

He’d managed to maintain concentration for about forty minutes before making a tactical retreat to the stove. Illya had been surprisingly knowledgeable, and they’d had what sounded like a lovely and completely nonsensical discussion about quantum computing over the kitchen table.

Napoleon shakes his head, and speeds up so that Gaby isn’t quite dragging him across the marble floors of the museum. It does no good to think of Illya right now. Not since that text, not since knowing he’s somewhere out there in a desert, possibly getting shot at. Not since he is one more step further from Napoleon, stuck here in a dreary London.

“Pick one,” Gaby says.

Napoleon jolts back to himself to find himself in front of a large display case full of butterflies. Dead butterflies. “What?”

“You have to pick your favourite,” Gaby says. “Ignore the fact that they’re all dead, I know it’s a little creepy.” She peers down at one of the information plaques. “Apparently these are up to a hundred years old, and they have to be really careful moving them because they’re so fragile.”

Napoleon searches through them. “That one,” he says eventually, pointing at a small butterfly along the top of the display. The wings fade out from black to a pale, ashy blue, with bright orange spots at the tip. When Napoleon moves and the light catches it just right, the wings suddenly gleam.

“There used to be hundreds of them every summer, when I was a kid,” he says quietly. “They loved this one type of flower that was in the back yard- asters, I think? Big purple flowers with bright yellow centres, looked exactly like a kid’s drawing of a flower. They would get covered in butterflies like that every summer.”

“I can’t imagine you ever drawing a flower as simple as that,” Gaby comments as she leads him further into the exhibit.

Napoleon huffs a laugh. It feels foreign in his mouth. “Please, Gaby. As if I was ever anything but an artistic genius.”

“A genuine Michelangelo, straight from the womb,” Gaby says. She winces straight away. “Despite knowing you for over a decade I’m still not sure if that reference was right, so please be forgiving.”

“I’ll allow that one,” Napoleon says. “But you’ve used up all your allotted quota for art jokes for today.”

Gaby shrugs, stepping closer to examine one of the butterflies. “There’s plenty more I can tease you with, that’s okay. Now, I can’t pick between these two butterflies for my favourite. You’re always saying that my fashion sense is non-existent, so you have to pick for me now.”

Napoleon glances over at Gaby. Her suit is sharp enough to cut someone, the tailoring exquisite. She’s discarded the jacket for a more casual look, and a necklace sitting in the hollow of her throat perfectly accents the silver threads just visible in her suit trousers. It’s a far cry from that ratty old boiler suit he found her in, back in Berlin all those years ago.

“You know me,” he says instead. “I always love the classics. That little silver one is better than the deep burgundy butterfly.” He steps forwards to read the labels neatly stuck next to each butterfly. “_Lysandra bellargus_. More commonly known as Adonis Blue.”

“Oh, perfect,” Gaby says. She tugs at his arm, pulling him further along to more of the exhibition.

They’re surrounded by dead butterflies. There’s even a whole section on moths, their little bodies pinned up in displays that are probably meant to be interesting, but to Napoleon just looks like a poor mimicry of life, hundreds of soft wings outstretched and frozen in a caricature of flight.

“Did you know that Monarch butterflies migrate from southern Canada to Mexico for the winter?” Gaby says, pulling Napoleon away from the display case. “That’s like…a lot of kilometres.”

“Around two thousand miles, depending on where you start and finish,” Napoleon remarks absent-mindedly.

He’d once driven from Alberta to the Mexican border, stealing a convertible in Calgary and just driving for hours each day. Some days he hadn’t even bothered to find a motel or a quaint B&B off the side of the road that had no idea he was anything other than a normal person just passing through. Driving through Wyoming along the edge of Yellowstone, he’d pulled over and slept in the car each night, the roof down so he could stare up at the stars blanketing him and feel the autumn breeze gently stir his hair.

He thinks, for the briefest of moments, that he and Illya should go out to the Midwest, rent a car, and just drive until there isn’t anyone around for hours. They could camp out. Illya can catch fish and Napoleon will grill them over a wood fire until the flesh is falling apart and they can eat it with their fingers, out under the stars.

The next moment, he remembers that Illya has been silent for days, somewhere out in the desert under an entirely different set of stars, and he is here. He is left here.

“Darling?”

Napoleon blinks. “Two thousand miles is about three thousand kilometres, give or take a little,” he says automatically. “I know you’re too German to even try and think in miles.”

“It’s a stupid system,” Gaby mutters. “And this country is stuck halfway between metric and imperial, which is even more irritating.” She heaves a sigh. “The things I put up with.”

“Oh yes, because it’s so hard to have to live in this literal capital of art and fashion and culture,” Napoleon says straight back. “With all this amazing food and drink and entertainment if you know where to look. And you know me,” he adds as an afterthought, “so of course you know where to look.”

Gaby hums, and links her arm back with Napoleon’s. “I’m in the mood for weird deep-sea creatures. Let’s go find the ugliest one we can.”

“Ugliness is a societal construct,” Napoleon says automatically, but he lets her lead the way.

They’re wandering around the museum, both of them stubbornly not admitting that they’ve gotten themselves a little lost trying to find some deep-sea creatures, when Napoleon phone buzzes in his pocket. “I should take this,” he says, moving away out of the slow wandering tourists.

He pulls his phone out of his pocket to see _Delphine_ flash up on the screen. He answers.

“_Mon cher_,” Delphine purrs. “You promised me dinner.”

“I haven’t promised you anything,” Napoleon says. He puts a smile on his face, lets it leech through into his voice. “How are you?”

“All the better for having heard your voice,” Delphine says. He can hear the tempting smile curling her lips, can see in his head the way that she ducks her head and looks up at him under long, immaculately curled lashes. “London is growing immensely dreary, Prado.”

The name jolts at Napoleon, the feeling familiar now. Prado feels so much lighter.

“Well then, I can’t imagine that you’ll be staying around for much longer,” he says. “You always have plans brewing.”

“If you stayed on the phone for longer than a minute so we could organise dinner again, then maybe you would be able to know what those plans are,” Delphine says coyly. “I know you’d like them.”

Napoleon hesitates. Of course, Delphine hears it. “Prado. You can’t think that anything at that Institute of yours could rival the things you and I could come up with together. Don’t you remember all that we’ve done so far? And with so much more experience between us now, the world would be at our fingertips. We could do anything, Prado. Anything you want to.”

“Delphine.” Napoleon hesitates. Joanna still hasn’t managed to corner him about last week, but he imagines that won’t last long. Anderson has been glaring daggers at him every time they cross paths, and Napoleon has barely left his office except to teach his lectures. Illya has been silent for two days.

“Anything you want to do, Prado,” Delphine purrs again.

It’s only a matter of time before Joanna gets impatient and decides he’s too much trouble. Decides that Anderson’s credentials are more important than whatever she thinks she owes him for the person that the stories say he was.

“Dinner, Prado,” Delphine murmurs in his ear. “There must be something you can find that will make this city less dreary.”

“I’m sure you can do that all by yourself,” Napoleon replies. “But yes. Dinner. I think-”

There’s a gentle touch at his elbow. Napoleon flinches. He turns to see Gaby there, staring up at him. “They’re about to start the next short documentary on deep-sea creatures,” she says softly. “Do you want to go?”

“Prado?”

Napoleon freezes. Gaby nudges him again. “They have anglerfish plushies,” she says. “You’re going to have to convince me I shouldn’t buy one after this.”

“I’ll call you back,” he gets out to Delphine, unable to look away from Gaby. “We’ll work it out later.”

He hangs up before he loses his nerve. “Who was that?” Gaby asks.

“Just a work colleague,” Napoleon says smoothly. He lets her link her arm with his. “Let’s go watch weird sea creatures be weird.”

Gaby hums. She’s silent as they make their way through the museum, their shoes clicking on the marble floors. “You know,” she says quietly as they get in line, “I’ve been trying to not get too involved, recently. I don’t want to meddle.”

“Gaby,” Napoleon says warningly.

“I’m nearly done, and then I’ll drop it and we can watch weird fish,” Gaby says. “But you know that if you ever want to talk, or just someone to listen to you vent, then I will be there.” She glances up at him, and for a moment she suddenly looks small. “You do know that, right?”

“Of course I do,” Napoleon murmurs. He pats her arm, tugging her forwards as the line moves forwards a few steps. “Come on, chop shop girl. Let’s go.”

0-o-0-o-0

“I don’t care how important you say this is. You are not allowed in my hospital.”

Illya glances behind him. The jeep is just visible around the corner, the two soldiers guarding it looking nervous. This area of al-Harra is safe enough to walk through, but only just. “I just need to ask you some questions,” he tells the doctor in front of him. For the fourth time.

“And like I’ve just said, I will not have some Russian soldier coming in and upsetting my patients,” the doctor says. She crosses her arms, setting herself squarely in the front door of the makeshift hospital that’s been put together in an old, abandoned school. “Stop trying to deny it, I can see your lackeys by your jeep. You’re so obviously Russian that it’s painful.”

“If I was American, would you let me in?” Illya asks, resisting the urge to throw his hands up in the air or roll his eyes. “Or British? Is it just Russians that you have problem with?”

“It’s nosy soldiers who are trying to get in my way or make me do something that will endanger civilians or patients that I have a problem with,” she replies. “Fuck off.”

Illya pinches the bridge of his nose. “Christ,” he mutters. “Look. I’m not trying to get you to do anything, and I’m definitely not going to do anything to endanger your patients or any civilians in this area. I just need to ask you some questions. It’s important. Please will you let me in?”

“You’re probably the first soldier I’ve ever met who has said _please_,” the doctor remarks. “But no.”

“I’m not actually a soldier,” Illya mutters. He glances around him, watching the people hurry past on the streets. A white person in combats and with multiple weapons on them, standing in the street, tends to make people here nervous.

“Oh, an agent then?” the doctor asks. “SVR? Even better. Kindly fuck off.”

Illya estimates that he has another few hours before he needs to be back at the base and field Dmitri’s questions about where he went on the plane back. “I’m not- well, right now I am, but- look, have you ever heard of UNCLE?”

The doctor shifts slightly. She sticks her hands in her pockets. “Maybe. What of it?”

“We worked with _Médicins Sans Frontières _before. Back in late 2013, I think? My partner and I were sent out to eastern Somalia and we worked with the MSF hospital that’s out there.” The doctors and nurses there had been some of the best unexpected allies that him and Napoleon could have hoped for. Especially when Illya had taken a bullet to the shoulder and the wound became infected, out in the middle of nowhere.

The doctor takes a step forwards out of the doorway. “What’s your name?”

“Illya Kuryakin.”

He watches her eyes widen before she catches herself. “I’ve heard of you. You and your partner were the ones who got Nadiya out of that detainment camp.”

They hadn’t meant to go off mission, go after a nurse who had gone missing when visiting one of the villages, but like most things that they hadn’t meant to do, it had happened anyway. Gaby had only shouted at them a little when they burst back into the hospital, Illya half-unconscious with blood spilling down one arm and a nurse shouting for gauze and a saline drip.

He frowns. “I’m pretty sure her name was Miriam. Small nurse. Feisty. Took out two captors with a pipe before we even managed to break into the place. Has a brother working with you as well. Aaron, I think?”

He knows a test when he sees one.

The doctor relaxes. “So you really are him,” she says. “If it wasn’t for the fact that Miriam is incapable of lying and you have a dozen witnesses for that mad escapade you got yourselves into, I would have said that someone made you up.”

“Still real,” Illya says. “Despite whatever those damn stories say. Now, will you let me in? I need to ask you some questions.”

“Promise me that you won’t endanger my patients, my staff or the civilians in this area.”

“I promise that I will not intentionally do anything to endanger anyone here,” Illya says. “And, if I need to, protect the people here to the best of my ability.”

She shrugs. “Good enough, I suppose. My name actually is Nadiya, by the way.” She steps aside and lets Illya through.

Illya tucks his rifle in against his side as he moves through bustling corridors. Hospitals always sound the same. The sound of nurses and doctors rushing past, the steady beeps of machinery, someone somewhere in the building crying or shouting. Illya suppresses a shiver.

Miriam leads him into a small office tucked away in a corner of the building. “It used to be a supply closet,” she says, pulling out a bottle of water and waving it questioningly at him. “Sorry about the mess. Paperwork isn’t exactly the priority when IEDs still go off every other week round here.”

Illya sits down. “I want to ask you about the night that you were taken.”

Miriam goes still. “I should really make some headway on clearing this mess up,” she says, turning away from Illya and beginning to scrape the papers strewn across her desk together. “We’re not that stretched at the moment. I can take an hour or so to fix this office up. Maybe put a minifridge in here, that would be nice.”

Illya leans forwards, resting his hands on the desk. “Miriam. You might know something that will help me stop more people getting hurt. I need to ask you about what happened.”

“What happened?” Miriam slams the stack of papers down on the desk. “I got dragged off the streets, right outside this hospital, and bundled into the trunk of a car. I thought I was going to die. That’s what happened.”

“I am sorry to make you think of it again,” Illya says, keeping his voice steady and his hands resting on the table. “But I need to ask you these questions.”

“I had a gun pointed at my head. Someone screamed in my face for answers in a language I didn’t really understand.” Miriam grips the edge of the desk, her knuckles white. “Have you ever been so scared that you pissed yourself? I was. I thought I was going to die. I told them everything I knew, everything I could think of, and I begged them to let me call my partner one more time before they shot me in the head. And then, they threw me back onto the doorstop of this place. The exact spot that they’d taken me from. It was like I hadn’t moved an inch, if you didn’t see the bruises.”

It’s a familiar story. Illya has been on both sides of it.

“What did they ask you for?” he asks. “What did they want?”

“It’s all a blur,” Miriam mutters, dropping down into the other chair across from Illya. Her voice is suddenly quiet, the edge softening and disappearing as she slumps in her chair. “They were screaming at me about…what we had planned? What we were preparing for? How we knew that there was something to prepare for in the first place?” She rubs a hand across her face. “They had hijacked the latest supply shipment and found that we had ordered more than usual. They thought it meant something was coming.”

Illya leans forwards. “And was there?”

Miriam looks up at him warily. “You’re doing this to try and keep people safe?” she asks. “You’re not- everything I’ve heard about you says that you and your partner try to do the right things. Is that true?”

“Two agents were killed in a botched raid on the compound in this area,” Illya says. “We think that there was a leak of information. We think that somehow, you are involved. Did anyone tell you anything, in the days before your capture? Were you, or someone else here, contacted?”

Miriam hesitates. “There was this phone call.”

“Go on. Please.”

“They called the hospital. Said that there was going to be increased risk in this area within the next few weeks. That something was going to happen, and we needed to be prepared to evacuate civilians from the eastern district in two weeks. He didn’t say much, not even when I asked for more.”

“He?”

Miriam shrugs. “He sounded young. Russian, though I think you knew that already. But he sounded honest. He asked about our contingency plans for increased insurgent control around the area, gave us some suggestions for how to better get people in and out of the hospital without attracting attention. They were good suggestions, and we’ve been using them for the past few weeks.”

“And this person was concerned about civilians? They didn’t mention anything else?”

Miriam shrugs again. “I didn’t record the entire conversation and listen back to it for fun, you know. But I got the gist that something was going to go down in the area, in the next few weeks. And that if it went badly, people were going to be hurt, or the insurgents around here were going to…retaliate, maybe? And that we should be prepared to try and keep as many civilians safe as possible.”

Illya breathes out. So the insurgents somehow found out about this. Maybe the phone call wasn’t as secure as he thought it was. Maybe he made a mistake somewhere. Maybe it had nothing to do with him, and the insurgents just got lucky.

He isn’t sure. He isn’t completely sure. Maybe there’s another agent in the SVR with a poorly hidden desire to actually try and do some good, who hasn’t been broken down yet by Lubyanka enough for them to not even bother to try something like this.

“Did he give a name?”

“Oh, it was definitely fake. Super fake. But I wouldn’t let him say anything until he gave me a name, and he called himself Boris.”

Fuck.

Illya doesn’t remember leaving. He must have; he must have shaken her hand and walked out of the hospital, must have gotten into the jeep and driven back to base. But he doesn’t remember it. He blinks and he’s halfway through packing his bag, rifle propped up against the cot.

“Where did you disappear to?” Dmitri asks as he steps inside, shaking sand out of the scarf around his neck. “The wind has picked up, but the plane is still on track to land in an hour.”

“I had to run some errands,” Illya says automatically. “Are you packed?”

Dmitri rolls his eyes. “I never unpacked, of course. But yes, I’m ready to move out when you are.”

Illya watches Dmitri out of the corner of his eye as he sits back on his cot and starts flicking through an old paperback that had been stuffed into his bag. He looks relaxed, as much as anyone can be when in the middle of a secret base in the desert. His rifle is resting next to him, but he doesn’t seem to pay any attention to it. There’s a small smile curling his lips as he reads.

He didn’t do anything wrong.

He killed two people.

Illya stuffs another shirt into his bag. He checks the flash drive for the thousandth time, securely in an inner pocket. He’s killed people too. He’s stared down at some through the scope of a rifle, hasn’t even registered some faces because he’s been moving too quickly to stop. He’s made mistakes that have gotten people killed, even when he didn’t mean to.

Dmitri didn’t mean to.

It’s that thought that keeps him silent as they shoulder their bags and run out to the plane, engines still running. They’re in the air in seconds, the desert falling away beneath them. Illya stares out of the window, Dmitri slowly nodding off in the seat next to him.

Asleep, he looks so young, and he knows what he should do.

He knows what he has to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohhhh Dmitri...
> 
> Yep, some of you guessed it. Some of you were waay off. Some of you, I think, forgot the reason Illya was in Moscow in the first place! Which was somewhat intentional, because Illya also mostly forgot why he had gone to Moscow in the first place. Illya has a choice to make now. Anyone got any guesses as to what he's going to do?
> 
> Also it's my birthday today, so comments would be extra extra loved and I'm totally not above blackmailing you by telling you it's my birthday to get comments. Love you all.


	21. Decisions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up. Here we go.

London is grey and cold. Napoleon flips up the collar of his coat as he heads outside, stuffing his hands into his pockets and trying to huddle into the coat to preserve what warmth he can. People hurry past, crowds swelling and disappearing as people hurry down the Strand and over Waterloo Bridge. From the courtyard of Somerset House, as Napoleon slowly makes his way towards the street, he can see them all scurrying past.

Napoleon watches them keep their heads down, eyes fixed on the grey pavements beneath their feet. They have no idea. They have their own little lives going on, and they have no clue as to what goes on beneath their feet or behind their backs.

Alexi’s screams hang in the spaces between them, the rush of the wind that sends them huddled further into the pavement.

Napoleon blinks, and a figure is standing at the courtyard entrance.

She looks resplendent against the crowds, bright red standing out against the grey. She smiles at him, and he remembers a hundred days like this. Watching her smile and knowing that something was coming that would bring back that high, that in a few days he would be running across Parisian rooftops in the middle of the night, his blood singing with exhilaration until it’s all that he can feel.

“Prado,” Delphine says, meeting him in the middle of the courtyard. “You’ve been avoiding me.”

“I’ve been busy,” Napoleon says automatically. His heart is racing. He rubs his hands against the inside of his pockets, curling his fingers into fists. “Why are you here, Delphine?”

“So quick to business?” Delphine asks. She steps forwards, running a hand softly down his arm. “You’ve been a little harder to get hold of recently. I can’t help thinking that maybe you have a touch of cold feet.”

Napoleon’s breath hitches. Delphine seems to not notice. “It’s understandable, of course,” she says soothingly. “You’ve been pinned down for so long. Finally getting the chance to stretch your wings is no little thing, and I can understand being apprehensive. So much has changed since your old days, Prado. But you’ll get back into it quickly, and it will be like you’ve never left.”

“What are you saying, Delphine?” Napoleon asks.

He knows what she’s asking. Of course he does. But he has to hear her say it.

Delphine looks up at him. “Come with me, Prado. Come away with me, out of this grey and dreary city. You can’t be happy here, not in this place, pretending to be something that you’re not.” She steps closer, her hand resting gently on his arm. “You remember it, don’t you? We were on top of the world. We had everything we ever wanted. Come with me, and I can put you right back there.”

He does remember. It’s all he’s thought about these past few weeks, alone and left behind in an empty bed. The glittering ballrooms, surrounded by luxury that they would turn upside down in a few hours. Delphine’s laugh as they make their escape, his entire body alight with adrenaline and a high he hasn’t felt for years.

If he shuts his eyes, if he thinks back to it all, he can just touch the edge of that feeling. It’s lingering there, just out of his reach.

All he has to do is step forwards and reach out.

“Come on, Prado,” Delphine purrs. “What do you have here left to keep yourself entertained? This place is grey. The people around you are grey, all insignificant. You don’t have to stay, you don’t have to keep surrounding yourself with all these little people who don’t understand a fraction of how the world really turns.” She holds out her hand. “Come with me.”

Napoleon takes a step towards her.

He takes her hand and they run, pushing through the grey crowds.

He disappears from London, reappearing in Milan with a new wardrobe and a new name, suits sharp enough to cut and lockpicks hidden in a pocket. He runs, cities blending together into a riot of dazzling colour, jewels hidden in suit linings and paintings in false compartments, fake documents in his hand and a perfectly crafted lie on a tongue that loses its tarnish until it’s bright silver again. There is champagne in his veins, the taste of luxury on his tongue, a high setting him alight until he’s running on nothing but air and the way that his blood sings.

He runs and he runs, city after city, country after country. They gleam around him, unfurling and spilling their secrets for him to take. Money and art and people fly through his hands, never touching him. Nothing ever touches him. He learns the new faces around him, learns their delights and their weaknesses, what he can use to entice them over to him, what he can hold over their heads to keep them quiet. His hands become used to the weight of a gun again, to the balance of lockpicks. His name changes, again and again, and his tongue grows to know nothing but the elegant lies that fall from his lips as easy as breathing.

His smile grows sharp. People learn not to cross him as his hands become used to the weight of lockpicks and knives and guns when the silencer is screwed on tight. The cities grow duller, their gilt tarnishing until he’s running again to another city, another enticing shine, but that grows dim too. He runs further. Everyone learns not to touch him, not to try and cross him for fear of what is hidden beneath slick suits and a sharp smile. His hands grow steadier on his gun. He leaves people strewn behind him as he chases the next city, only to find it dull and tarnished before he even reaches it.

He keeps running, he keeps going not knowing how to stop, and the world grows closer and dimmer around him until it’s constricting him, squeezing the air out of his lungs. His smile is honed until it is sharper and sharper, until everything around him is in tatters, torn and abandoned, and he turns at the end of a dark alleyway in some dull little town and there’s a knife waiting for him, and it’s stained with regrets that have clung to him, their claws sinking deep into his bones until he can’t move for the weight of what could have been if he’d turned away. And then it’s all over, and he’s lying in a gutter watching the washed-out lamplight slowly fade above him, hoping beyond hope that he doesn’t have to go on anymore.

What is he doing.

What is he about to do?

Napoleon Solo heaves a breath. He steps back. “No.”

Delphine follows him. “No?” she asks, her voice a low purr. “Prado, what are you doing?”

“I can’t.” Napoleon gasps for breath. His heart is racing, he can feel it pounding in his chest, and it’s like he’s just woken up from a nightmare, the tatters of the dream still trying to cling to him. “I can’t.”

“Of course you can,” Delphine says softly. “It isn’t that hard, _mon cher_. Just come with me, and we can go back to the way it was.”

Napoleon stares at her. “The way it was? We killed people. We left people in ruins. And for what? For money? For that high we were chasing? I won’t go back to that.”

Delphine’s expression hardens. “You didn’t seem to have a problem with it before. You were ready to walk away with me.”

“I forgot,” Napoleon breathes. “I forgot. It was so long ago, and I was so desperate. I am. But I can’t go back to that. I can’t do that.”

“Your husband is gone,” Delphine says, her voice hard. “He is gone, and he is never coming back. If you are staying here, in this grey city and surrounded by all these grey, little people just for him, then you are going to be disappointed. He isn’t coming back.”

“You don’t know him,” Napoleon gets out. “You don’t have any idea what he’s going to do. And- after everything we’ve been through, he deserves my trust. I won’t let him down.”

“I never thought that you would ever be naïve, Prado-”

“That’s not my name! Prado was a stupid young man who didn’t care about anything other than chasing a high that was worth nothing! He was wrong, he was wrong about everything!”

“Napoleon Solo isn’t real either,” Delphine says. “You invented him, just like you invented everyone else you ever were. I know what is real. I know what your nature is, and it’s not this.” She looks around in distaste. “It’s not this babysitting, pretending that you’re interested in art when all you’ve ever known is how to steal it. You know what you’re good at. You know what we could do together.”

Napoleon breathes out. His world, off-kilter for so very long that he didn’t even notice when it started to sway, begins to centre back around him. “My name is Napoleon Solo,” he says quietly. “And I do know what we could do together. I won’t do it. I won’t be that again.”

Delphine’s face twists in a sneer. “Am I not good enough for you?” she asks. “Is that it? You spent a few years believing that you were saving the world and now you’re the paragon of virtue, looking down on us lowly mortals who have let ourselves enjoy what is are right there for the taking. I know you, Prado. You’re no better than the rest of us.”

The world moves on around him, so fast that he can barely see it, but his voice is steady when he finds the words. “No. It’s not good enough anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time. And I won’t come with you.”

“You’re being ridiculous,” Delphine says. She steps closer, her whole body softening. Napoleon can see straight past it to the viper coiled beneath. “Come with me, Prado. Come and show the rest of them what we can do. All my cards are on the table now.”

“This is not a game!” Napoleon jerks back, pushing her hand away. “This has never been a game! I remember the types of cons we used to pull, the things we used to do to people who had crossed us or even just got in our way, I remember them all, and I am ashamed that I ever did it!” He heaves a breath, stumbling back from her another step. “I won’t go back to that. I can’t.”

“I know who you are,” Delphine says, her voice low. “I know what you’ve done. Do you think you can stay here, in this nice little life you tried to give yourself? Do you think you will ever deserve something like this? People like us, we can only have what we take for ourselves with force.”

Napoleon closes his eyes. Everything is a mess, tangled up together so he doesn’t know where one thought ends and another begins. Where Prado ends and Napoleon Solo starts. He doesn’t know if he deserves this, if what he’s done can be overlooked by whoever is going to judge him in favour of what he’s trying to do now. But one thing is clear now.

He isn’t going to go back. He will not become that person again.

“I can’t, Delphine,” he says. “And there is nothing you can say, nothing you can do anymore, to try and change my mind.”

He watches her face slowly fall. “For what it’s worth, I am sorry. But I cannot be that person again. I can’t just abandon all of this, even if I don’t deserve it.” He tucks his coat around him again. Delphine is silent now, staring out at nothing.

Napoleon is halfway to the street when he stops. “Delphine,” he says, looking back over his shoulder.

She turns to him, alone in the courtyard. “If you ever need help to find your conscience,” Napoleon says, “then you will know exactly where to find me.”

She stares at him like he contains the last threads of her salvation. Napoleon turns away. He joins the crowds flowing past through the London streets, and he disappears from her view.

Alexi slowly begins to quieten, his voice fading from the empty spaces between the people on the street. They move past, unaware that he was ever there at all.

0-o-0-o-0

He finds him up on the balcony, overlooking the rush of people down below in the shopping centre.

Dmitri barely glances up as Illya steps onto the walkway. “I’d forgotten that it’s Christmas soon,” he says, not looking up as he tracks people through the crowd. “They’ve put up the decorations now.”

“Dmitri.”

Dmitri doesn’t look up. “The tinsel is so…gaudy. And the flashing lights are a bit much. But I like the tree that they’ve put up. Even if it is a bit early.”

Illya stands at the edge of the walkway. “Dmitri.”

He didn’t sleep last night. He’d stared at Dmitri’s files until the words were blurring on the page, trying to convince himself to do what he knows he should. What Oleg had asked of him when he’d first turned up in Moscow. He knows that he should turn Dmitri over, that he should take the evidence to Oleg and let the cards fall from there.

He can’t.

He can’t watch Dmitri disappear into the prison beneath this place, to be locked away like he’s a criminal. He can’t let Oleg control him for the rest of his life, or let someone else get taken by this place. Markos is already dead. Alexi is locked away somewhere beneath his feet. There are others, other agents that he barely remembers anymore, who are dead or missing because of this place.

Azra was right, back in that bar. If Italy hadn’t happened, if Napoleon and Gaby and Waverly hadn’t happened, then he would have been dead within a year. The missions would have killed him. He would have been left for dead in the gutter, in the middle of nowhere in some godforsaken country.

If he lets Dmitri stay here, if he leaves him behind, then Dmitri will die. It’s not a question anymore. Oleg will work it out eventually. Even if he doesn’t, this place will bear down on Dmitri until it’s too much to take anymore.

UNCLE saved Illya, in more ways than one. Maybe, just maybe, it could do it again.

Dmitri straightens up. He doesn’t look away from the people below. “What is it?”

“You know exactly what it is.”

Dmitri laughs. “So what now?” he asks, his voice bitter. “You’ve got all the leverage you could possibly want. What are you going to use me for? What do you want me to do?”

Illya feels sick. After everything, after all that Dmitri has told him, his first thought is that Illya is going to use it against him. This place, this building and all of the crushing weight of these old stones, this has done this to him.

He wants to scream. He wants to grab Dmitri and run until they’re out from the weight, until Dmitri is somewhere safe where Oleg can’t reach him. But he can’t make Dmitri do that.

“Dmitri,” he says, keeping his voice as calm as he can. “It’s me. You know me. What makes you think I would do that to you?”

Dmitri finally looks up at him. He looks desperate. “Isn’t that what everyone does here?” he asks, his voice hoarse. “Isn’t that what happens? This place, these people here, it-” He breaks off, heaving a breath. “It doesn’t matter. None of it matters.”

“Why did you do it?” Illya asks, when Dmitri doesn’t say anything else. “That was classified intel, Dmitri. After everything, you know better than to leak classified information. You know exactly what havoc it can cause, the type of people it usually ends up hurting. What made you do that?”

Dmitri laughs. He looks back down at the shopping centre and the mass of people below them, none of them ever looking up. “You know, I used to do what you’ve kept telling me,” he says softly. “I used to keep my head down. Try and ignore what I knew was going on around me. I kept telling myself that I could stick it out. A few more years toeing the line, and I would be in a place to make real change. That in ten years or so, I could make a real difference.”

He laughs, again. “You were out there, somewhere. You were making a difference. I thought that if I could hang on long enough, like you did, then maybe in a few years it would all be okay. I would be okay. So, I hung on. I kept my mouth shut. Until…”

Illya can finish that sentence for him. “Until Alexi.”

Dmitri drops his head. “Until Alexi. He went mad- I don’t even know if that’s the right way to describe it, but it was what it looked like. Nearly drank himself to death, disappeared, and then- well, you know the rest.”

“I just…I just couldn’t stand it anymore. This place, it sucks everything out of us. It turns us into mindless machines, doing what we’re told and nothing else because to do anything different gets us beaten up or cast out into the gutter to fend for ourselves, leading us straight to the people that we spend half our lives trying to stop because who else would take us, after what we’ve been made into? After what this place makes us into?”

Dmitri’s knuckles are white where he’s gripping the railing, staring down at the crowds below. “They made me into a killer. Expecting me to blindly follow orders that were _wrong_. Orders that saw civilians put in danger, or just used as cannon fodder to achieve the mission, missions that were designed to undermine other countries or just take as much as resources as possible for the fucking Russian machine. How many times did I take part in something designed to further their agenda? How many times did I do something that got people killed, just because Oleg decreed it so?”

Dmitri rubs at his face. His eyes are red. “I just couldn’t take it anymore,” he says, his voice hoarse. “I just…seeing what happened to Alexi, I couldn’t. And then this mission fell into our laps, and it was so obvious that the insurgents would retaliate, that they would turn on the civilians still trapped in the city, but nobody seemed to care! So, I…I did some research, and I…”

“Tried to warn that aid worker,” Illya says. “I know. You shouldn’t have used your father’s name as your own.”

Dmitri’s lips twist. “I worked that out as soon as we landed back in Moscow yesterday. I never thought- it wasn’t- nobody was meant to get _hurt_. It was just going to be enough to warn the civilians in the area, to make sure the organisations out there were prepared. I didn’t- I didn’t mean to get anyone _killed_.”

“I know you didn’t,” Illya says quietly. He takes a step forwards, and then another when Dmitri doesn’t flinch from him. “But you made that decision. And now you have to make another.”

“I already made my decision,” Dmitri says. He straightens up. “I’ll face the consequences. Oleg can arrest me, throw me in prison to rot. Whatever he wants.”

He wouldn’t. Dmitri is too valuable, both as an agent and as political leverage. Oleg will hold this over Dmitri’s head for as long as he’s still alive, moulding him into his perfect attack dog. Dmitri will spend the rest of his life following every order given to him, until he’s given the one that kills him.

“You knew the consequences,” Illya can’t help but say. “You have been in this life for years now. You know that this is never fair.”

“Then we should _make it fair!_” Dmitri spits. “We should do everything we can to make all of this better! Isn’t that what you’ve done, isn’t that what all the stories say about you? Those ones whispered amongst ourselves when the higher ups aren’t listening, the ones that kept me going for all those years in the spetsnaz when I wasn’t anything else but a weapon to be pointed by someone else. We should do everything we can to make this _better_! And if the price of that is rotting in prison somewhere, then I’ll take it. God knows I brought this upon myself.”

“There are other options.”

Dmitri stares at Illya. “What are you talking about?”

Illya takes another step towards him. “One, you can come with me right now, to Oleg, and accept whatever he decides to do with you. Two, you can run, and Oleg will send me after you. Either I manage to bring you back here or I don’t, and one of us ends up dead. Three. I can keep this hidden for a few days, disappear back to London, and you can either stay here until someone else figures it out or you can run, and Oleg sends someone else after you. They will kill you, if they get the chance. If you don’t run fast enough.”

Dmitri stares at him. “I’d be running for the rest of my life,” he gets out. “And that wouldn’t be too long. Nobody can run forever.”

“I have one other option,” Illya says. He pulls out his phone and sets it down on the handrail between them. “Four. I call Gaby Teller and I take you to London. To UNCLE.”

Dmitri stares at him. “UNCLE?” he asks. “But that’s-”

“I could do it,” Illya says. “Oleg might try to come after you, but if Gaby backs you, then there would be little he could do. I can get you out of here, Dmitri. I have favours I can pull in, people who owe me. But I need to know that this is what you want.”

Dmitri swallows. “Do I have any other choice?”

“Right here, right now? Yes. I will let you walk away if you ask me to. But if you do that, if you go back to Oleg, you won’t ever be free of him.” Illya grips Dmitri’s shoulder. “Dmitri. What do you want to do?”

Dmitri breathes out. He picks up the phone and hands it to Illya. “I want to get out of here. I want to do better. I want to _be _better.”

Illya nods. “Then go home and pack a bag with anything that you cannot leave behind. Don’t tell anyone what we’re about to do, not even your mother. I’ll make sure she’s safe. I can get us a plane out of here, to another country if not all the way to London.” He presses his hotel key into Dmitri’s hand. “Get everything out of my room, and then meet me at the back service entrance, by the kitchens.”

Dmitri looks up at him as Illya steps away. “What are you going to do?”

Illya is already typing in Gaby’s number. Thoughts are running through his head, too fast for him to even register them for a fleeting moment before they are replaced. His heartbeat quickens, pulsing in his throat, but he can’t think about that right now. He can’t think about the enormity of what he’s about to do beyond the immediate actions. He needs to get Dmitri out. He needs to call in his favour with Azra for a route out of the country. He needs to-

His heartbeat murmurs _Napoleon_. Illya pushes that thought away. He can’t give it space now, not until him and Dmitri are on a plane and out of Russian airspace. Not when he still hasn’t quite realised what it is he’s about to do.

“I have one last thing I’ve got to do here first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had both of these scenes, but especially Napoleon and Delphine's, in my head for months before I got to writing them down, and I am so so excited to finally publish them. Napoleon's scene especially was something that I built everything towards- that brief moment when he really is about to go, he really is about to take her hand and leave, before he remembers just how terrible it all was. The realisation when Delphine asks him if it's not good enough anymore that no, it isn't good enough, that life can never be good enough anymore and maybe that means he might just deserve something a little bit better, that was the first line that this entire scene was then built on in my head. There are so many little details in this scene that finally tie off threads trailing back all the way through Narrative Casualties, if you want me to ramble about the meta just shout something in the comments at me and I will happily oblige. Thanks to somedrunkpirate for listening to me ramble about Napoleon's characterisation and motivations for waaay too long before I managed to nail it all down, you're the best.
> 
> And of course Illya wouldn't leave Dmitri behind. He's basically adopted the kid at this point, there's no way he would leave without him. But he isn't quite finished with Moscow yet. Any guesses as to where he's going right now?
> 
> I promise that the reunion is going to happen soon, I promise. As always, comments and kudos are much much loved.


	22. Alexi

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's not quite all sorted just yet. Illya has one last thing left that he has to do in Moscow. And Napoleon has one more realisation to finally reach.

The prison beneath Lubyanka is grey. Down here, the air is cold, and the weight of everything above him presses down even more. Fluorescent lighting buzzes overhead as Illya strides down the corridor. If he slows down, he might turn around walk straight out of here.

Guards are standing at the doors, but they watch him walk past with little more than a careful nod. Even they recognise him, and Illya knows that none of them are going to stop him.

He is shown into a small room. There is a large glass window splitting it in half, a few chairs pulled up to it. On the other side, a figure in a pale grey jumpsuit is slowly pacing up and down. They start at the sound of the door swinging shut behind Illya.

Alexi stares back at him from the other side of the glass. “Hello, Illya.”

It takes more courage than he thought existed to walk to that line of chairs and sit down. “Hello, Alexi.” Illya studies him. He looks neat, hair trimmed just a shade too long for army regulations, clean shaven. There’s a moment of surprise at the idea of Alexi being given razors. “How are you?”

Alexi sits down on the metal chair, bolted securely to the floor, on the other side of the glass. He smiles quietly. “Would you like to know the real answer to that, or would you like the one that will make you feel less guilty?”

Illya swallows. A tangle of words sits on his tongue, but he can’t make sense of them. “How are you, Alexi?” he repeats.

Alexi’s smile doesn’t waver. “I’m good. They let me have a metal fork for dinner yesterday. They took it away afterwards, of course, but I suppose it’s progress.”

“Progress?” Illya asks before he can think better of it. He remembers Alexi screaming at him, begging him to kill him as he was dragged away. His eyes skip away from the glass. “Did you- did you mean it?”

“At the time?” Alexi asks. “Oh, Illya. You know that I did.”

The screams echo in the spaces between them. Illya looks back up to see Alexi staring at him earnestly. “I’m glad you didn’t, Illya,” Alexi says. “I am glad that Napoleon managed to stay your hand. It took me a long time down here to realise that, but I have.” He smiles. “I was surprised, at the time, that you didn’t.”

Illya thinks back to that gallery. Napoleon’s blood on his hands and his fingers gripping his wrist. “So was I,” he says slowly. “Why did you- I don’t understand, Alexi.”

“You left, Illya.” Alexi leans forwards, staring at him through the glass. “You left, and your stories were the only thing to make it back. We all were listening. We pretended not to, we pretended to believe that you had defected and had been denounced by this place, but we all knew Oleg was lying when he said so. We all knew he was waiting for you to come back.”

“Was he?” Illya asked before he could stop himself.

“Oh, Illya.” Alexi smiles softly. “You were his heir. He wanted you to take over when he was gone.”

“He was killing me,” Illya says. His hands tremble, and he presses them into his legs to try and get them to stop. Alexi notices, his smile softening slightly. “Another year of those missions and I would have been dead.”

“I’m not denying that,” Alexi says. “We could all see you being run into the ground. But, judging how Oleg reacted when you never came back from Italy, I don’t think he intended to kill you. I think- well, I think he was trying to perfect you.”

“He shouldn’t have,” Illya snaps. “He- I was loyal to him. God, I _killed_ for him.”

“I know, Illya,” Alexi says softly. “I know. I did too.” He glances around him, at the grey ceiling and the grey walls, the furniture on his side all bolted securely to the floor. “I’ve had a lot of time to think in here. About this place. I take it that as you’ve made it down here, you’ve had some time to think as well. And now you’re leaving. You wouldn’t have come if you weren’t.”

Illya stares at him, and Alexi smiles. “I hear a lot, down here where people forget that I’m not a mindless inmate they’re just trying to keep alive for the sake of it. I know about Dmitri. Are you taking him with you?”

“I can’t leave him behind,” Illya says. “Not when- Oleg will own him forever, just like he owned us. Dmitri will be dead in a few years, or worse.”

Alexi hums. “Yes, he would be. He is too headstrong for this place, and still cares about making things better. Are you taking him to UNCLE?” At Illya’s nod, he smiles. “Good,” he breathes. “I’ve heard good things about Director Teller, though you would, of course, know better than myself. He’ll do good there.”

Illya draws in a breath. “Why did you do it, Alexi?” he asks quietly. “We trained together. Fought together. And I know now, I remember now, what this place does to us, but still…it was madness. I don’t know another word to describe it.”

“It was grief,” Alexi replies evenly. “I would have thought that you know better than most how close the two are to intersecting.”

He leans forwards, resting his hands on his knees. “I don’t think you want to know why I came after you and Napoleon,” he says. “I think you already have an answer to that. What you really want to know is whether you would do the same.”

Illya has to look away from Alexi’s face. For a moment, all that he can see is his own reflection in the glass. “I would burn the world down if I lost him,” he says, the words drawn out of him without his permission. “I would burn everything down.”

Alexi laughs. “It’s harder than it looks, Illya. I tried to burn just the two of you, and I didn’t even manage that.” He shakes his head. “I loved him, Illya. I loved Markos and I never even had him, not for a moment. And it was too hard to hate myself, or hate this place that was so good at breaking us apart and remaking us into soldiers, so I hated you instead.”

Alexi studies him for a long moment. “Are you really scared of that? Of what, doing what I did, becoming me? We couldn’t be more different.”

“Couldn’t we?” Illya asks. “Broken families. Spetsnaz, then Oleg. This _place_. It makes all of us into the same killers. It’s all the same. We all end up in the same place.”

Alexi laughs again. He tips his head back, laughing helplessly up at the grey ceiling above him. “Oh, Illya. Don’t you see? It’s over, Illya. It was over the moment that your Napoleon gripped your wrist and you lowered that gun. The moment you made that decision not to kill me. Maybe it was even all over that moment you decided to trust someone who we had always been told was an enemy and burned that famous disk.”

He shakes his head, a smile on his face. “You did what I don’t think I could ever have done. You came back here, and you managed to hold on. And now you’re taking Dmitri out with you, and he won’t become either of us.”

Illya stares at him. “Do you know why I wanted you to kill me, Illya?” Alexi asks. “Have you worked that one out as well?”

Illya manages to shake his head. Alexi smiles softly. “He was dead. Markos was dead. I had lost him before I’d ever really had him, and it hurt like nothing I’ve ever felt before. I was so angry. And there is only one thing I knew what to do with that anger, only one thing that this place has taught me to do. And when I saw the two of you… You were trying to shield Napoleon from me. From me, the person you’d once worked beside.” He shakes his head. “Somehow, I hadn’t expected that. And I realised that I had betrayed him. I had betrayed the one thing that had made this place bearable. I couldn’t live with myself for doing that.”

“And now?”

“It varies from day to day,” Alexi replies frankly. “But most days, I can tell myself that my death would do little but just make this happen all over again.”

Illya drops his head. “Alexi,” he sighs. “I don’t know- how could I do anything else if I lost him?”

“Oh, Illya.” Alexi presses one hand to the glass. “Don’t you see? It would be impossible. You are so _loved_. Believe me, it makes all the difference.”

That makes Illya look up. He thinks of Gaby, her sharp tongue and the crooked smile when they are arguing over physics again. Waverly and his ever-present pot of tea ready at his elbow. All the agents he worked beside at UNCLE, the ones he still sees sometimes in London as he’s walking Laika through the park. The people he’s picked up along the way from other agencies and other countries, who are around for dinner and a drink and a quiet conversation where a thousand things go unsaid because they’re already known.

Napoleon, pressing a kiss to his forehead as he leaves for work. Napoleon, setting another mug down in front of him as he reads in the garden. Napoleon, curled around him in bed, his slow breaths on the back of Illya’s neck.

Illya rubs the wetness away from his eyes. “I’m so sorry,” he gets out.

“For what?”

“For…I don’t know, Alexi. For leaving you behind. For leaving all of you behind to this place. For Markos, and his death, and for not stopping it from happening somehow.”

Alexi smiles, and it is immeasurably sad. “It was too late for me, and for Markos. But you have no idea how those stories of you and your Napoleon have saved some of the people here. How they keep people like Dmitri going, just long enough for you to find him.” He presses closer to the glass. “I know, Illya. It isn’t enough. This place makes it so that nothing is ever really enough. But you have to believe me when I tell you that it was something.”

Illya meets his gaze. “I don’t blame you, Illya,” Alexi says quietly. They’re only a foot apart now, separated by a thin plate of glass. “For Markos’ death. He should have known better than thinking the legend and the person are the same thing, but this place stopped him from remembering that.” His mouth twists. “I don’t blame you. And I really want you to believe that.”

Illya lets out a shuddering breath. “I can try.”

Alexi smiles. “Tell your husband. Tell him that it wasn’t his fault. The stories I listened to, the ones I twisted to suit myself because I couldn’t do anything else in my grief, they aren’t his fault. I made them my own, and that responsibility lies with me alone.”

“Does it?” Illya asks. “It was still us. We did those things.”

“Oh, Illya.” Alexi presses closer to the glass. “I was grieving, Illya, and that’s something this place has never taught us how to do. I latched onto your stories, the ones that bleed from the walls of Lubyanka, and I made myself believe that it was your fault, because that’s always easier, isn’t it? No matter how much this place taught us to hate ourselves, it’s never quite as easy as finding someone else.” He shakes his head. “It wasn’t your fault, Illya. I want you to believe that.”

Illya shakes his head. “I’ll try. That’s all I can promise.” He glances at his watch. “I don’t have much time left, Alexi. I need to go if I’m going to get out before anyone notices.”

Alexi is on his feet now. “Go,” he says quietly. “Take Dmitri out of here to somewhere better. He deserves better.”

Illya is also on his feet. He doesn’t remember standing up. “I won’t ever see you again, will I?”

Alexi’s smile twists into something sadder. “I don’t think so. But if Oleg ever lengthens my leash, I’ll let you know.”

“Find me,” Illya says abruptly. “If he does. You know where we are. If you ask, I will help.”

“Oh, Illya,” Alexi murmurs. “You always were the best of us.” He presses a hand up against the glass. “Go home, Illya. Go back to your Napoleon. Do that for me, will you? In payment to me. For Markos and everyone else that we’ve lost.” He smiles through the glass, his eyes wet. “Tell him that I’m sorry.”

Illya blinks back the tears threatening to spill down his cheeks, and presses his hand to where Alexi’s is on the other side. “I’m sorry, Alexi. I’m so sorry.”

“I know,” Alexi murmurs. “Now go, Illya. Get out of here and don’t look back.”

His hand drops from the glass. Illya slowly lowers his, staring at Alexi. Alexi laughs, and makes a shooing motion at him. “Go!”

Illya forces himself to turn, and his feet to carry him out of the room. He doesn’t look back.

They’re waiting for him as he heads for the great doors leading out of Lubyanka into the square. Gleb pushes himself away from the wall he’d been leaning on. Zia is at his shoulder, glancing nervously at the other people around them. “Kuryakin.”

Illya knows that they suspect what he’s about to do. And in this moment, he’s certain that they won’t stop him. “Gleb,” he says evenly, not stopping as he walks towards the doors. “Zia. Have a good evening.”

“Illya!”

Illya pauses, glancing back over his shoulder. Gleb’s expression is inscrutable, but Zia gives them both away. She sways forwards for a moment, almost stepping towards him before Gleb puts out an arm and gently holds her back. Illya turns back towards them.

“It’s not impossible,” he says quietly. “And you can have something better.” He pulls his coat on. “If you want it, then I will help. You know exactly where to find me.”

He feels Gleb and Zia’s stares on his back until the moment that the doors swing shut behind him. He knows that they won’t go to Oleg. They want to see him get out of here as much as he wants to leave.

It’s that thought that keeps him walking.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon’s feet take him to the only place that he could possibly go right now.

He doesn’t notice any of the city pass by. Everything feels off-kilter, the ground suddenly knocked out of him. He keeps replaying Delphine’s words in his head, like there is some hidden meaning in there that will make the world fall back into place. If there is, he can’t find it. He can barely find himself in all of this.

Napoleon walks through the building in a fog. People move past without him seeing any of them, talking in words that he can’t understand. Someone greets him as they walk past, and he stares blankly. Try as he might, he can’t find any words to answer with.

He is outside of her door. He thinks he knocked. He can’t remember.

Napoleon hears Gaby’s voice through the door, and his entire body shakes with fear and longing and guilt. “Only a moment, I’m afraid. I’m a little busy with-”

She cuts off as she opens her door. “Oh. Solo. Lovely to see you, but what are you doing here?”

Napoleon can’t find the words to form an answer. Gaby studies him for a long moment.

She takes a long look at him, and then quietly pulls him into her office. The door clicks shut behind them.

“Are you okay, darling?” she asks as she turns to him.

Napoleon starts to cry.

Almost immediately Gaby is there, drawing him into her arms. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs. “Oh, it’s okay. It’s okay.”

Napoleon buries his face in her shoulder. He can smell her perfume, and it’s so familiar that it pulls another sob from him until he can’t stop crying. He can feel himself trembling. He’s falling apart, right here in this office that he used to spend so much time in, and he can’t do a single thing about it but hope that Gaby can hold his weight for a few moments.

When he finally manages to come back into himself, he’s sat on Gaby’s sofa, still wrapped up in her arms. He raises his head. “I ruined your suit.” His voice is watery, but he tries to ignore it.

“Like I don’t have three exact replicas of this suit in that closet over there,” Gaby says quietly. “It would have had engine oil on it within a week.” She smooths a hand gently through Napoleon’s hair. “Now, not that I don’t love spending more time with you, but would you like to tell me why you came here? Take your time. I cancelled all my meetings for the afternoon.”

Napoleon sniffs. “I- Gaby,” he whispers. He can’t look up at her, pressing his face into her shoulder again instead. “I nearly did something _really_ stupid.”

“Even by our standards?” she asks.

Napoleon’s breath hitches. “Oh,” Gaby says, her voice softening. “Okay then. Well, you’re here, so I presume it wasn’t too bad?”

Napoleon manages to glance up at her. “I nearly made the biggest mistake I could ever make, and I’m still not completely sure I made the right decision.” He wipes at his face. “I screwed up. I really screwed up, Gaby.”

He tells her everything. Everything since Delphine first sat down opposite him in that café, a delighted smile on her lips. Every dinner, every coffee, every phone call that Napoleon answered instead of doing his own work. All the moments that he couldn’t think of anything but those years of running and thieving, the glitz and glamour that had so enamoured him once.

When the words finally run dry, his voice hoarse and the skin over his cheeks tight from tears slowly drying, it feels like he’s been talking for hours. Gaby hasn’t looked away from him for the entire time, though he only managed to look at her briefly for fear of what her expression would be.

He looks up now. Gaby is looking back at him, her brow furrowed. “Oh, Napoleon,” she says softly. “That really was stupid.”

Napoleon’s breath hitches. “I don’t know what I was _thinking_,” he gets out. “But…Illya is all the way in Moscow and I didn’t know what to _do_, I didn’t know how to do anything, and then she was just...she was just _there_. And it was like I’d never left.”

Gaby hums. “But you didn’t go with her,” she reminds him. “She all but dropped the perfect opportunity in your lap. Why not take her up on the offer?”

“Because…because it was hell,” Napoleon decides eventually. “It was complete hell. I didn’t- I wasn’t thinking of it like that with her, because with her, all I could see was the glamour of it.” He drops his head, running a hand over his face. “It was so easy to just remember the glamour of it with her.”

He takes a breath, and tries to find the ground beneath his feet. “It wasn’t like that,” he says quietly. “I know I’ve always- it’s easier to make jokes, isn’t it? Easier to shrug it off. But it was hell. Constantly running, constantly watching my own back because I had nobody to trust to do it for me. Making decisions that I am so-”

His voice breaks, and his eyes grow wet. “I am so _ashamed _of them,” he gets out, looking away from Gaby because the sympathy on her face is too much to bear. “I screwed people over because it was _funny_. Because I could make more money from it. Because it was easier than caring and I was in way too deep to start to _care_.”

He heaves a breath. “I can’t do that anymore. I can’t…if I go with her, I’m going straight back to that person that I hated _so_ much. I can’t be that anymore. I can’t.”

“Okay then,” Gaby says softly. “So what do you want to do now?”

Napoleon stares at her. “What _can_ I do?” he asks. “I may not want to be that person anymore, but that doesn’t absolve me from what I’ve done. All the shit that I’ve somehow gotten away with.” He rubs a hand over his face, wiping at his eyes. “People are dead because of me, Gaby.”

Gaby eyes him. “That has never changed,” she says cautiously. She studies him for a long moment. “Oh. The stories thing.”

“So eloquently put, but yes,” Napoleon says. “Markos is dead because of us. Because of _me_, seeing as all the stupid shit that made it into the stories was my idea. I have no idea if Illya even blames me for the death of one of his oldest friends, but I can’t ask because he’s all the way in fucking Moscow, and it is still my fault. It is all _my fault_.”

“So what, you think that you don’t deserve this?” Gaby asks.

Napoleon glances away from her, and she hums knowingly. “Ah.”

“What have I done to get this?” Napoleon asks bitterly. “I’ve lied and cheated and swindled my way here. People like me shouldn’t get happy endings with a loving husband and a job I enjoy and- and, all of this.” He waves a hand at the world, because how else can he put it? All of that out there, the people who look up to him without knowing who the hell he is, the little slice he and Illya have that had been all he had ever wanted for so long. He doesn’t deserve a single piece of it.

Gaby sits back. “Napoleon. Darling. Does Illya not deserve this life as well, then?”

Napoleon stares at her in shock. “_Gaby_. Illya deserves everything. _Everything_. If I could give it to him, then I would. After everything he’s been through, Illya deserves everything that he could ever want.”

Gaby eyes him. “And what if, and I highly suspect this is true, everything he could ever want includes you?”

“I-I wouldn’t ever abandon him,” Napoleon gets out eventually. “Even if he-” He has to break off to take a breath against the solid lump choking his throat. “Even if he never comes back from Moscow, I won’t- I can’t abandon him. I love him, Gaby. I love him _so much_. But that’s never really been our problem.”

“I know,” Gaby says. She shifts on the sofa, tucking her legs beneath her. “So, what’s all this about not deserving a little happiness? After everything you’ve done?”

“Exactly,” Napoleon says bitterly. “Everything I’ve done. Not even counting everything I did as a thief, where I did it all purely out of greed, not even counting the shit I did when I was on the CIA’s leash and trying to avoid prison. When I thought I was doing the right thing, whatever the fuck that is, that still got people killed. That still killed Markos and drove Alexi to...to everything he did.”

“I don’t think I’m capable of persuading you that you aren’t responsible for those stories,” Gaby says eventually. “But if you think that the only thing those stories have done is hurt people, then you are wrong. This isn’t a matter of opinion,” she says abruptly when Napoleon opens his mouth to try and speak. “And this isn’t a debate. You are wrong.”

Napoleon snorts. “Sure.”

“Don’t believe me?” Gaby asks. She suddenly gets to her feet. “No, stay there. I’m going to prove it.”

She goes over to her desk and picks up the phone there. Napoleon listens to it ring, and then there’s a click. “Smithson,” someone says over the line.

“Julia,” Gaby says, giving Napoleon a meaningful look that he interprets as _shut up and pay attention_. “I was looking over your recent mission report, and I’m missing parts from the warehouse raid. You know, the one that led you through those hidden tunnels that you and Lou found and decided to follow and ended up with you breaking out fifteen hostages without backup? That one?”

There’s an embarrassed cough over the line. “Director, I already apologised for not waiting for backup, but it was necessary, and-”

“We’ve been through this already. There are some patchy parts on the audio recording, though, from when you and Lou were moving through the tunnels. Something about Solo?”

There’s a pause, and then Julia abruptly laughs. “Oh, that? It was just something Lou said to me when I wondered whether this was a good idea. What was it- oh, yes, he said something like _if Solo and Kuryakin were here, they wouldn’t even hesitate to get these hostages out. We might as well do our best to help these people_.”

Gaby stares Napoleon down. “Is that the only time you’ve referenced Solo and Kuryakin in missions?”

“Oh, god no,” Julia replies. She laughs again. “Half the time we hesitate over a difficult decision, someone will bring them up. They’re a good example, you know? We know they weren’t infallible, literally anyone who has ever met either of them can tell you that they’ve also fucked up, but they did the right thing, you know? Even if it cost them somehow. And they made the same difficult decisions we all have to make. It’s reassuring to know they’re still out there, and relatively okay, after making those decisions.”

Gaby hums. She hasn’t looked away from Napoleon, and Napoleon can’t bring himself to look away from her. “Thanks, Julia.”

She hangs up. Napoleon opens his mouth to try and say something, though he isn’t sure what. “I’m not finished,” Gaby says quietly. She dials another number.

Napoleon recognises the voice that answers. “Andrei, how are you?” Gaby asks. “Still thinking about retirement?”

“Oh, on and off,” Andrei replies. Napoleon knew him from when he was here at UNCLE, an Interpol agent that they’d met on a mission in Algiers. He was a solid, dependable man, with more than three decades of experience. “Angie is looking to move out of Paris as soon as possible, I think.”

“What was it that you were telling me about, last time we had lunch?” Gaby asks. “I can’t for the life of me remember.”

“Oh, I was talking about Napoleon Solo,” Andrei says. “I saw him just before I met you for lunch, I think? I was just wandering around the Tate Modern to kill some time, and there he was. Surrounded by impressionable young students, and teaching them, no less. Sounded like he knew his stuff.” He huffs a laugh. “Anyway, I think I was rambling to you about how seeing him was weirdly reassuring? I know there are other people out there, like Solo and his husband- oh, Kuryakin, yes, that’s it. Anyway, it’s nice to know there’s others out there who have moved on from this crazy life.”

Gaby laughs. “That’s one way of putting it. Maybe you should give him a call sometime.”

Napoleon glares at her. Gaby sticks her tongue out back at him.

“Oh no, I don’t want to disturb him or Kuryakin,” Andrei replies. “It’s enough to know they’re there, I suppose. If I do get really cold feet, then I’ll give them a call. I owe Solo another hand of gin rummy.”

Gaby says goodbye and hangs up without looking away from Napoleon. “Should I keep going?” she asks. “There are other people I can call. Every single person in this building would line up outside that door and tell a story about how you and Illya have helped them. Everyone who has been through training here has thought of you at one point, used your example to keep going when they would have liked to lie down and stop. Every agent who worked beside you has used your example to help them make the tough decisions that need to be made. And every agent who has thought about what comes after this, what happens when they’re tired of running around playing this game? They look at you. They watch you live a life outside of this place. And it helps them believe that they can make it too.”

Napoleon swallows heavily. “Still,” he says weakly. “I can’t even do my damn job anymore, whatever that is meant to be. I can’t- I’m a thief, Gaby. That’s all I am.”

Gaby folds her arms. “Okay, we’re doing that as well? Fine.” She pulls out her mobile. “Joanna and I email. We’ve been doing so more, recently.” She scrolls through something on her phone. “Ah. Here. She sent this a few days ago.”

Gaby starts to read. “_Solo has been falling behind a little in some articles I’ve asked him to submit, but that might just be because he’s spending more time with some of his students. He’s recently started helping a French transfer student, René, with improving their English. He even told off another, much more widely venerated professor here, for not respecting René’s pronouns. Anderson complained to me, but I told him to shove it. I’ve been trying to corner Solo, let him know that was bloody ballsy and great of him to do, but he’s been avoiding me._”

Gaby looks up from her phone for a moment. “Of course you adopted a student,” she says, her voice fond. “You’re going to end up with a whole horde of them, aren’t you?”

Napoleon can’t find any words. Gaby turns back to her phone. “_To be honest, I think he’s been handling all this fairly well. I remember how fragile he was when he first came here, and he’s made such massive strides forwards since then. I don’t think this is going to knock Solo, or Illya for that matter, all the way back to where they used to be. They’ll be okay, Gaby._”

Gaby puts her phone down. “Understand?” she asks.

Napoleon blinks against the wetness filling his eyes. Gaby’s expression softens, and she returns to him and pulls him into a fierce hug. “Oh, darling,” she murmurs. “You’re not the person that you used to be. It’s been a long, long time since then.”

Napoleon presses his face into her shoulder. “I can’t be that anymore.”

“Okay, then,” Gaby murmurs. She smooths a hand through his hair. “So, who do you want to be?”

It’s like someone has punched him in the gut.

He sits back and stares at her, and a small smile curls Gaby’s lips. “You do get a choice in this, darling. You can pick.”

Napoleon stares at her some more, desperately searching for something, anything in her face that might show she’s joking, that she’s only messing with him. He can’t find anything. “I-I want to be someone who deserves…all of this.”

Someone who is enough to deserve a townhouse and a job he loves, galleries and markets and theatre on the weekends, escapes to random cities when there’s too much rain in the city and Napoleon needs to travel or to the mountains when Illya needs to stand amongst snow and just be Russian for a day or two. Someone who is enough for Illya to come home to.

“I think you’re already well on the way,” Gaby says. “Now, I think we need some tea. Or coffee. Maybe some Irish coffee.” She gets to her feet. “I have-”

Her phone starts ringing. “Go on, answer,” Napoleon says, clearing his throat. His body feels strangely weightless, like there was something there that he didn’t even realise was there until today. “It is probably important.”

Gaby picks up the phone. “Teller.” She listens for a moment, and Napoleon watches as her expression abruptly changes, a frown furrowing her brow. “Hang on. No, slow down. You’re doing what?”

She breathes out. “Oh, Illya.”

Napoleon is on his feet. He doesn’t quite remember getting up. His head swims at it protests the abrupt movement, but he locks his knees and forces him to stay on his feet. “Put it on speaker.”

Gaby clicks a button and sets the handset down. “-a ride out of Moscow,” Illya says, his voice filling the office. Napoleon reaches out and steadies himself on the corner of the desk. Illya is talking almost too quickly to understand, sounding frantic like Napoleon hasn’t heard for a while. “I can call in a favour with Azra. A life debt. She can get us to Paris. But I need assurances that Dmitri and I aren’t just going to be arrested the moment we step off the plane. There must be _something_ you can do.”

“You’re leaving?” Gaby asks. “And with Dmitri?”

“I can’t- I can’t leave him here,” Illya says, his voice thick. “He’ll be dead in three years. He didn’t mean to get anyone hurt. He deserves better, Gaby, he deserves _so_ much better than this. Please, I know you can help him. Please, Gaby. I’m literally begging you.”

Gaby hangs her head. “Okay. Fine, Illya, fine. I’ll back him. Get out of Russian airspace and I’ll make sure you touch down okay.”

Napoleon can hear Illya’s sigh of relief over the phone. “Thank you, chop shop girl. Thank you.” There’s a heavy pause. “Is Napoleon…do you think he will talk to me, if I call him? I can’t- Gaby, I don’t want to do this without him anymore.”

Gaby covers the receiver on the phone, and looks up at Napoleon. “What do you want me to do?” she whispers.

Napoleon is pushing her hand away before he even realises it. “Hey, Peril,” he says. His voice catches. “Damn good timing.”

“Cowboy.” Illya’s voice is a breath over the line. “Leon. I have so much to explain now. And I know I have no right to ask this of you, but…we’re only going to get as far as Paris. Would you- maybe you could come-”

Napoleon is crying again. He’s not sure when he started, whether it was as soon as he first heard Illya’s voice crackling slightly over the phone. He laughs. “I’ll meet you in Paris, Peril,” he gets out. “I will. I’ll be there.”

Illya laughs over the line in relief. “I don’t- there isn’t enough time to explain everything right now,” he says, his voice rushed. “But I saw Alexi. I went to see him.” A rush of static as Illya breathes in. “He told me to tell you that he doesn’t blame you. It wasn’t your fault, what he did. He was grieving, and this place never taught us how to do that, so he twisted up our stories instead. He said that was his responsibility.”

The air is knocked out of Napoleon in one great rush.

His mind pulls up a definition, black text stark against the white page of the textbook.

_Barthes, R. (1967). The Death of the Author._

_The argument proposed by Barthes that the author’s intent should be set aside and excluded from any critical analysis of a text. It is the onus of the reader to interpret a given text. The author does not create, but rather transmits, the story that already exists._

Of course.

From the moment they were first spoken, the stories had never really belonged to them.

He heaves a breath. Gaby is gripping his arm, looking up at him with wide eyes full of concern. Napoleon realises that he’s crying, heaving sobs that have him leant against Gaby’s desk. “Cowboy?” Illya is calling through the line. “Napoleon?”

Napoleon can’t help but laugh, even as tears stream down his face. “I’m here, Peril,” he chokes out between breaths. “I’m here. I love you so much.”

“I love you, Cowboy,” Illya says, his voice raw. There’s the sound of something in the background over the phone, and Illya curses. “I have to go now. I only have one chance to get Dmitri and myself out of here. I’ll- I’ll see you in Paris, yes?”

“Paris,” Napoleon agrees. He wipes at his face, staring down at the phone like it might suddenly reveal Illya right there and not a thousand miles away. “I’ll see you there, Peril. I promise.”

“I love you,” Illya says again, and then the line goes dead.

Napoleon laughs, and his legs finally give out until he’s slumped down on the floor, Gaby’s desk cold and hard at his back. He doesn’t stop laughing, tears still streaming down his face, until everything has washed over him and he is floating, free for a brief, weightless moment.

When he finally manages to pull himself back, hiccupping sobs through a grin that he hasn’t worn for weeks, Gaby is sat next to him. She reaches over and takes his hand. “Better get you a plane ticket, then.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That scene between Illya and Alexi has been in my head in some way, shape or form ever since Alexi became a prominent part of the story in Narrative Casualties, and I am so so excited that you all finally get to read it! An insane amount of thought went into this conversation, I rewrote it so many times in my head until finally putting it down on the page. So many of the emotional threads of the story that were first started in Narrative Casualties finally reach their end in this scene- what Alexi says to him is right. Illya breaks the cycle, breaks himself and Dmitri out of the abuse that is propagated and repaid over and over, because he is so _loved_. Because he found people who care about him and love him, and he allowed himself to be loved. Napoleon isn't there in Moscow, but he is so, so important in this scene. If you would like me to ramble more about the details of this and the meta involved in this story, please do ask in the comments! I love rambling about meta, it's way better than the revision I have to do for final exams right now.
> 
> And then Napoleon's scene...Oof. He did the right thing, and he knows that, but he is all over the place. So of course he goes to Gaby. This is the second half of his turning point- he has realised he doesn't want to go with Delphine, but now Gaby makes him realise that all those things he's done that he's beating himself up for, they have helped so many people and saved so many lives. The stories aren't all bad, there's a hell of a lot of good in them too.  
The death of the author epiphany that he has completely mirrors my own- I was rambling at somedrunkpirate about the plot of this story before I really started writing it, and at that point I hadn't pinned down the majority of the threads of this story and was struggling a lot about how to reach some sort of happy ending after everything that went wrong in Narrative Casualties. And suddenly, out of all these ramblings, I knew exactly what Napoleon's arc was, and that it all centred around this concept, 'the death of the author'. This made a huge part of this story suddenly fell into place, so I've been building up to it for a pretty long time now.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos and much, much loved and appreciated. Love you all, hope you're all safe and well.


	23. La Seine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They meet halfway, on the bank of the Seine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The scene that so many of you have been waiting for, for literally most of this story. Enjoy.

Illya herds Dmitri onto the plane and swings the plane door shut behind them. “Go,” he tells the pilot. “Get us up in the air.”

The plane engines are already running. The pilot has them in the air within minutes. Illya makes a mental note to anonymously send Azra a whole case of vodka. Nobody has noticed, so far, that they’re gone, but it isn’t until Illya sees Minsk below them that he finally relaxes. They’re out of Russian airspace. They made it.

He thinks, finally, of Napoleon. Of what he’s going to say when he finally sees him again. He is the one who walked away, ran off to Moscow to go straight back to Oleg. He knows, finally, what that place was, what it did to them. But he still left. He has no idea if Napoleon is willing to forgive him for doing that. He knows better than anyone how stubborn Napoleon can be.

That moment when he’d heard Napoleon’s voice over the phone, he thought his heart had stopped. He had wanted to somehow crawl through the phone and reappear right next to Napoleon. He had wanted to hold onto him and not let go until the surprise and hurt in Napoleon’s voice had disappeared.

There’s nothing he can do now but wait. And try to come up with something that will make Napoleon listen to him. It probably won’t work, he can barely concentrate on anything but the next steps, the next contingency plan, but it stops him panicking thousands of feet up in the air.

He’s halfway through what is probably a fifth or sixth draft of a speech that is just _stupid_, how the hell is he going to have Napoleon listening for even a second, when he looks over at Dmitri.

He’s curled up in his seat, staring out of the window behind them even though Russia is probably far from view. His shoulders are trembling.

Illya sits down next to him, and Dmitri turns to face him. Tear tracks are shining on his cheeks.

“What do I do now?” he asks, his voice wobbling. “How do I go on from this?”

Illya wraps one arm around his shoulders, and stares out of the window at a home they can no longer see. “One foot in front of the other,” he says softly. “Just…one step at a time.”

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon sits on a crowded plane, pinned into a window seat. He watches London disappear beneath him.

A few hours, and he’ll be on the streets of Paris. He’ll be in the same city as Illya. He’ll see Illya again.

He’ll see Illya again. After what he’s done. What he nearly did.

He has no idea how he’s going to confess all of this to Illya. Illya, who has never abandoned him, who has always been there at his side ever since Italy and a disk flung across the room. Illya, who has always been so steadfast in what he wants and what he has. He doesn’t know how to explain to Illya that one small reminder of his past had nearly been enough to suck him back in.

He guesses he’ll start at the beginning. He owes Illya that, at the very least.

0-o-0-o-0

He stashes Dmitri in the British embassy in Paris. It burns another favour, but it’s the safest place Illya can think of. Even if Oleg sends someone after them, they won’t be suicidal enough to try and go up against Illya when he’s backed by the British government.

It’s raining outside, that fine mist that sneaks under the coat and makes even the tourists walk a little quicker. Illya turns the collar of his coat up against it. Paris isn’t Moscow, that has been carved deep into his bones before he could even walk, or London, where he slowly learnt the maze of streets, but he knows it well enough by now that his feet take him towards the Seine without him needing to think. He cuts through the Tuileries garden and across the bridge, and the Musee d’Orsay slowly comes into view on the other side.

Illya clenches his fists and slowly stretches his fingers back out again. He doesn’t let his stride slow, doesn’t let any of the hesitation or worry slowly leeching into his entire body make him falter. If he stops now, on the middle of the bridge, he’s not sure which way he will continue.

He left. He left him behind, ran away to Moscow and to everything he said he’d never go back to. He doesn’t know if it’s enough that he’s made it back now. He’s only made it as far as Paris, and it’s only because he couldn’t leave Dmitri there to die in Moscow.

He’d been convinced that he would never go back to Moscow before. He might be wrong again.

His feet stutter at the end of the bridge. He thinks Napoleon is going to be there, outside the Musee d’Orsay, but maybe only because he had been with Gaby when Illya had called her, and Gaby won’t let him back out. It’s another thing entirely whether Napoleon will hear him out, listen to him or even begin to forgive him.

Not that Illya has any sort of argument for everything that has happened. He hasn’t managed to get that far. It wasn’t until the last ten minutes since Dmitri was finally safe and stashed away in a room deep inside the British embassy, a guard posted outside, that Illya could even think about anything beyond the next steps to take, the next contingency plan that might be needed.

The Musee d’Orsay slowly looms above him, the sound of the river next to him only just audible over the traffic and the tourists pushing past him. Illya scans the crowd, searching for dark hair and a face he would recognise anywhere. He moves away from the throngs outside the museum entrance that are staring up at the vaulted ceilings in the entrance hallway. Napoleon doesn’t like crowds.

There’s a figure leaning against the railing alongside the river. Burgundy pea coat that Illya has seen hanging up in their hallway a thousand times, dark hair caught by the wind to curl and fall out of place across his forehead. He’s looking away from Illya, studying the people coming across the Pont Royal.

Illya’s heart is in his throat. He can’t do anything but keep walking forwards.

Napoleon turns to look across the crowd, and he sees Illya. A small, uncertain smile curls his lips for a brief moment.

Illya slowly comes to a stop. He’s waiting for something, though he has no idea what it is. Napoleon to step away from him, maybe. To start questioning him, shout at him, ask him why he ran away straight back to Moscow and away from him.

Napoleon takes a step forward, and then another and another. Illya can’t move, can’t do anything but stare at him as Napoleon tentatively reaches out. His hand cups Illya’s cheek, and Illya’s breath hitches. “Hi, Peril,” Napoleon says. The caution in his voice burns.

Illya’s hand comes up to cover Napoleon’s. “Hi,” he says. His voice sticks in his throat. There’s a mile between them, filled with jagged edges that don’t quite fit back together and echoes not quite faded yet.

Napoleon’s expression crumples, and Illya doesn’t hesitate.

They meet halfway, on the bank of the Seine.

Napoleon’s breath hitches as he buries his head into the crook of Illya’s neck, gripping hold of him so tight that it’s almost painful. Illya holds him and feels his racing heart ever so slowly calm and begin to slow down. “Cowboy,” he murmurs into Napoleon’s hair over and over again. “Napoleon. _Leon_.”

“Oh, Peril,” Napoleon whispers, his breath a huff of hot air across Illya’s throat. “Oh, _Illya_.”

Illya presses his face into Napoleon’s hair and breathes him in until his heart stops racing. Napoleon’s hands clutch at him, grabbing at the back of Illya’s coat until there’s no space between them, and his breath slowly evens out across the hollow of Illya’s throat.

Eventually, Napoleon pulls back. “Is Dmitri safe?” he asks, and Illya’s throat closes up at this being the first thing Napoleon asks him.

“I’ve stashed him in the British embassy,” he says eventually, when he thinks that he can talk without choking on his words. “Had to burn through set of favours, but he’s safe there. I’m waiting on Gaby to send through the paperwork and documents that will make his…defection, I suppose, go through.” He glances down at his watch. “Should be another couple hours.”

They end up wandering down the bank of the Seine, a little ways from the crowd. There’s an empty bench there, looking out across the river. They sit down together, staring out at the grey of the water slowly moving past and the city unfurling beyond it.

Napoleon can feel his heart begin to race again. Illya keeps glancing over at him, like he can’t quite believe that he’s here, and it’s doing nothing to calm Napoleon down. He doesn’t know how to start to talk. The relief at having Illya back, of being sat next to his husband again, is being drowned out by static.

Illya shifts next to him. Napoleon glances down, to where their hands are still clasped together between them. “I- I don’t know where to start,” Illya says, staring straight ahead at the oblivious tourists strolling past. “I’m sorry, Cowboy. I-”

Napoleon slips his hand out from Illya’s grasp. “I nearly left. I nearly went back to being a thief.”

He can’t bear to turn and look at Illya’s expression now. He knows if he sees any sign of anger or fear or worry, that he’s almost certain would be there, he wouldn’t be able to do anything but get up and walk off. At least that way, he’s sparing Illya from having to leave first.

“I- you were gone and I couldn’t do anything about it, I couldn’t do the job I was meant to be doing, I couldn’t even sleep without dreaming of everything I used to do, everything I used to be. I was…stuck, I couldn’t do anything because how could I just move on? How could I pretend like what I did hadn’t killed Markos, hadn’t driven Alexi mad with grief?”

The words are spilling from him now, all rough and unsmoothed, jagged edges cutting his tongue. He doesn’t think he could stop talking if he tried.

“And then…Delphine showed up. Just appeared right in front of me, in some random café. And when I saw her, when she talked, all I could remember were those days. All the glamour, the euphoria of pulling off the perfect heist. And then I couldn’t stop thinking about it. I couldn’t stop myself believing that it would be…easier. All I was good for. And Delphine offered me the perfect way back. I could just…go with her. I was so close to leaving. I was so close to going back.”

He opens his mouth, not sure what he’s even going to say next, but the breath leaves his body when Illya moves beside him. Slowly, he reaches out and laces his fingers back together with Napoleon’s.

Napoleon turns to look at him. Illya looks right back at him. Napoleon knows his face better than anyone else, knows exactly what Illya looks like when he’s worried and trying to hide it, knows when he’s angry or confused or tired beyond belief. He sees none of that now.

For the third time today, Napoleon starts to cry. And in this moment, as he feels a solid grip on his hand, he’s never loved Illya more.

“Oh, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs, his voice achingly soft. He reaches up and wipes a tear away from Napoleon’s cheek. His touch sends shivers through Napoleon and he just starts crying harder. “Don’t cry, Leon,” Illya says quietly. He wraps an arm around Napoleon’s shoulders and Napoleon falls into him willingly, Illya a solid warmth beside him and everything he hadn’t realised he had so fiercely missed.

They sit there in silence for a while, tears slowly drying on Napoleon’s face, Illya’s cheek pressed to the top of his head. Napoleon doesn’t want to move from here, he doesn’t want to go anywhere else or do anything that would mean pulling back, but the world doesn’t stop just because he would like it to.

“She offered me a way back,” Napoleon says quietly, staring out at the river. “And I remembered what it was like. The things she had done, the things that I had done with her…and I decided I didn’t want to be that person anymore. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t- it wasn’t good enough anymore. And maybe that means that this, what we have, is good enough?”

“If anyone deserves a good life now, it is you,” Illya says quietly.

Napoleon huffs a laugh. “I’m not sure if I believe that yet,” he murmurs. “But…I’m willing to try. To be someone who deserves this. Deserves you.” He feels Illya press a kiss to his temple, and tears prick at the corners of his eyes again. “Gaby kicked a little sense into me, after I ran from Delphine.”

“Gaby will do that,” Illya says automatically. He pauses. “When I called her, when you were there, that was when-”

“Delphine had cornered me at the Institute, I nearly went with her, then refused her and ran to Gaby because I didn’t know anyone else who would be willing to physically restrain me from trying to do something really stupid?” Napoleon asks. “Yes. That.”

Illya nods. “So when I told you what Alexi had told me…”

Napoleon huffs another laugh, and it feels a little more familiar in his throat. “It had been a long day,” he murmurs. “And…look, this might not make much sense to you, but have you ever heard of the death of the author?” He can feel Illya’s shrug. “Obviously not.”

He clears his throat. “It’s an essay, written in 1967 by the French literary critic- that bit isn’t important. It’s a literary theory that essentially says the author of a story has no influence over how the story is then interpreted. It doesn’t belong to them, it belongs to the people reading or listening to the story. They’re just- I think Barthes put it in some typical pretentious French way, but the author is simply transmitting the story to an audience.”

He rubs a hand over his face. “It’s not perfect, it’s only a theory and context is still important and still matters, but…when Alexi said that he had taken our stories and twisted them, it…it made sense. And I’m not quite sure, yet, but- I think that maybe it isn’t my fault, what Alexi did?”

“It never was,” Illya says softly. “But I am glad that it helps.” He presses a kiss to his temple. “And I’m sorry for leaving, Cowboy.”

Napoleon twists abruptly to look at him. “What are you talking about?”

Now it’s Illya that looks away, watching the tourists wander past. “Oleg called, and I went. I left you behind and ran off to Moscow. To everything I said that I had left behind. And I was so caught up in what I’d once known, and what I had been there, that for weeks I didn’t even think of how to come home. I was worried about Dmitri, and how to stop him getting himself killed, and I was- everywhere I looked, I was ten years in the past and trying to keep my head above water.” He pulls his hand free from Napoleon’s to press them to his eyes, his head bowed. Napoleon can see the muscles clenching in his jaw. “That _place_, Cowboy,” he says, his voice so muffled that Napoleon can barely hear him. “That _fucking place_. Dmitri is so young and already it was starting to tear him apart. I couldn’t just stand by and watch that happen.”

Napoleon reaches out, and gently pulls Illya’s hands away from his face. “You said, when you left, that you needed to know if you could come back on your own. And you did. I don’t think many people exist who could walk away from Moscow once, let alone walk away, go back, and then walk away all over again.”

Illya’s lips twist. “It wasn’t quite walking,” he mutters.

“Fine, so you got on a plane both times,” Napoleon says. A smile is slowly curling his lips. “My point still counts, Peril.”

Illya turns to look at him. “I’m sorry for leaving.”

Napoleon laces their fingers together. “You came back,” he says simply. “Whatever you believe you need forgiveness for, I forgive you. I always have.”

“Except for keeping the flat caps,” Illya points out.

Napoleon laughs. The sound surprises him, and that only makes him laugh more, tucking his head into the crook of Illya’s neck and his shoulders shake uncontrollably. Illya wraps an arm around him even tighter and breathes in the sound of Napoleon’s sheer relief until it saturates the air around the two of them. He holds onto Napoleon and he drinks it all in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I rewrote that reunion so many damn times, trying to get the emotions right, trying to get it to flow properly and all pull together. So much rests on this scene, and I think I'm pretty pleased with how it's turned out. Feel free to yell at me in the comments if you need to let off some steam! This story has been building up to this reunion for soooo damn long, and I'm really excited to know what all of you think of it.
> 
> I know this chapter is somewhat shorter than normal, I spent ages debating with myself whether to put the next scenes in as well, but I didn't want to overload everyone with very emotional scenes in one go, so I've cut it here (and that gives you a little bit of a clue for what might be coming next chapter, which I also spent ages agonising over and rewriting). I'll try to remember to get the next chapter up a little quicker this time, but my brain is currently a sieve for anything not exams-related (might be a pandemic but still gotta finish my degree) so we'll see.
> 
> As always, kudos and especially comments are much, much loved. Hope you're all safe and well, love you all.


	24. Oleg

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Illya stutters to a stop, hand tightening painfully on Napoleon’s. Oleg turns towards them.
> 
> “You have something of mine, Kuryakin. I would like it back.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Last chapter was very emotional. This chapter is also very emotional, but for completely different reasons. The plot, or the angst, isn't quite over yet.

“We should go back to the embassy.”

Illya isn’t sure how long they’ve sat on the bench together, but it’s long enough that a small worry for Dmitri is creeping into the back of his mind. Napoleon is still leant heavily against him. Their fingers are still tangled together, the wind tugging at Napoleon’s hair and pulling it out of place to curl. The peace is fragile, and they’ve only talked about a fraction of the things they’re going to talk about, but it’s a familiar peace. Illya revels in it.

Napoleon hums, and reluctantly sits up. “Of course. I’d like to meet Dmitri.”

“I think you’ll like him.” Illya gets to his feet and pulls Napoleon up after him. “He’s…he is young. So young. But I have never met anyone in our jobs with such convictions.” He starts up the pavement to the crossing, Napoleon keeping in pace. “That place would have destroyed him.”

Napoleon laces their fingers together. “But it won’t now. He’ll be okay.”

Illya hums. He tucks closer to Napoleon to get past yet another throng of tourists blocking the pavement. Napoleon doesn’t move away again, even when the pavement clears. He is a solid line of warmth next to him, and Illya can’t help the smile on his lips as they walk down the street together.

“So many tourists,” Napoleon mutters as they dodge another crowd. “Remind me again why we picked Paris?”

“Because I was on a plane that had limited fuel and we couldn’t make it all the way to London?” Illya replies. He sidesteps a group of children as they rush past towards the river. “This is making me not like Paris again.”

“Ah, it’ll pass. We’ll come back when things are less…all of this, and go back to that restaurant you loved.” Napoleon squeezes Illya’s hand. “And avoid all the crowds.”

Illya looks around them. “All these people,” he says softly. “They have no idea the wheels that have to turn to keep everything going. How close it all is to collapse with one small push.”

Napoleon hums. He swings their linked hands between them. “That just means we did our jobs right.”

They walk in silence through the streets of Paris, the crowds slowly disappearing as they draw closer to the embassy. “So, tell me about Dmitri,” Napoleon says eventually. “The type to get in trouble as soon as your back is turned? Or the type that has trouble find him even squirreled away in the heart of the British embassy?”

“Both,” Illya mutters resignedly.

“Jesus,” Napoleon says. “That is the _worst_.” He squeezes Illya’s hand. “Don’t worry about him, Peril. Getting him out was undoubtedly the hardest part. You’ve done that now, and after all that time with us, Gaby will be an expert at corralling him and keeping him out of trouble. She’ll take good care of him.”

“You think so, Cowboy?” Illya asks.

Napoleon squeezes his hand again. “Absolutely. It’s Gaby we’re talking about. And we’ll be there as well, make sure he doesn’t get too carried away. Even from the two sentences you’ve told me about him, I can tell he looks up to you.”

He hasn’t even met the kid yet, but he already knows that Illya has already fitted him into their slightly lopsided, unconventional family of the two of them and Gaby. At least the dinner table will be evened out now. And it’ll be nice to have someone else that Illya can rant at in Russian over a glass of vodka, instead of him trying to get Napoleon to actually care about the minute details of Balkan politics.

Illya hums. “Idolises me a little, I think.” He pauses, glancing away. “I can’t- it will make more sense eventually, but there are some things that are not mine to tell.”

“Give me five minutes.” Napoleon can feel his cheeks aching from the smile still across his face, but he still grins up at Illya as they walk down the street. “I have so many embarrassing stories about you that I can tell, and it’s no fun trying to get Gaby invested when she was there for most of them. That’ll stop any idolisation pretty quickly.”

Illya huffs a laugh, but it fades quickly. He glances over at Napoleon. “We will make sure of it, yes?” he asks, his voice hesitant. “He won’t- I can’t see him become like me. Or like Alexi.”

“Oh, Peril.” Napoleon tugs him gently to a stop, and then rises up on his toes to press a soft kiss to Illya’s lips. “I think there are far, far worse people Dmitri could turn out like than you. But then you are my husband, and I am horribly biased.” He squeezes Illya’s hand. “We’ll look out for him.”

It’s still raining as they walk back through the Tuileries gardens, that fine mist beginning to turn into real rain. People hurry past under umbrellas as they turn down the street towards the embassy, the tourists slowly fading out and being replaced by bankers and lawyers and the occasional diplomat, judging by the trailing bodyguards in poorly fitted suits and guns under their jackets.

Napoleon spots him first, through the figures that hurry past, hiding under their umbrellas. He’s standing at the front entrance to the embassy.

Illya stutters to a stop, hand tightening painfully on Napoleon’s. Oleg turns towards them.

“You have something of mine, Kuryakin. I would like it back.”

Napoleon can feel the bones in his hands almost grinding together with the force that Illya is gripping it. He doesn’t look away from where Oleg is standing. “Peril,” he murmurs. “Illya. What do you want to do?”

He feels Illya take a breath next to him. “Find Dmitri,” he says quietly. “Make sure he’s safe. Make sure he doesn’t leave that room.” He takes another breath, and then slowly lets go of Napoleon’s hand. “I’ll deal with this.”

Napoleon forces himself to calmly walk past Oleg and into the embassy. He doesn’t look back at Illya, doesn’t look over at Oleg and snarl the threats at him that he so desperately wants Oleg to hear. Only once he’s inside and the door has swung shut behind him does he start to run.

Dmitri is in an inner room, a guard standing outside. “Sir, you can’t-”

“A Russian SVR agent is outside your front door, and he wants the person in this room,” Napoleon says quickly. “Get people posted on every entrance and exit, and do it quickly. The agent in this room, Dmitri Yuvchenko, is not to leave this embassy.”

He doesn’t wait to see if the guard follows his orders. He throws the door open. Inside, a young man stops abruptly, halfway through pacing up and down the length of the conference room. The chairs around the table are scattered and out of place like he’s moved from chair to chair, trying to find one to sit still in.

Dmitri Yuvchenko looks over at him. “Who are you?” he asks, his hands twitching by his sides. His accent is a thicker version of Illya’s, his stance as he faces Napoleon an imitation of how Illya moves. Napoleon stares at him for a long moment. He’s only seen one or two photos of Illya from when he was younger, and Dmitri doesn’t look much like Illya other than looking Russian, blond and blue-eyed, but it’s close enough that Napoleon can see a resemblance.

“My name is Napoleon Solo,” he says when Dmitri’s hands twitch nervously again. “I take it you’ve met my husband.”

Dmitri blinks. “I didn’t- Illya didn’t tell me you were here.”

“Last minute plans,” Napoleon says. He shuts the door behind him. “There’s been a bit of a complication.”

“Complication?” Dmitri asks. His hands curl into fists. “Illya said that I would be safe once out of Russia. That with the backing of Director Teller, the SVR couldn’t touch me.”

“Illya didn’t lie to you,” Napoleon says quickly. “But you know how complicated something like this can get. And you and Illya stole out, right from underneath Oleg’s nose. Oleg isn’t happy. And he has come to, in his words, take back what is his.”

Dmitri pales. He staggers back a few steps, gripping the back of one of the chairs. “I- no, I can’t, I won’t- he can’t take me back. I can’t go back. He’ll kill me, he’ll bury me somewhere and I’ll never get out again. I won’t belong to him again, I won’t-”

“Dmitri,” Napoleon says steadily. “Dmitri. Calm down. You’re not going anywhere if you don’t want to. And you don’t belong to him. You never belonged to him. People don’t belong to other people.” He pulls out two chairs, pushing Dmitri gently into one, and grips his shoulder. “Nobody is keeping you here against your will. If you want to, you can walk straight out of here back to Oleg.”

Dmitri flinches. “I thought so,” Napoleon says, gentling his voice. “The safest place for you right now, then, is this room. Illya is outside, and Oleg will not step foot inside this building. You’ll be safe. I promise.”

Dmitri’s lips curl in a faint smile. “A promise from Napoleon Solo,” he says. “That, I think I can trust.”

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon rushes inside, and Illya moves to bar the front door from Oleg. “There is nothing here for you,” he says, trying to steady his voice. He lets his hands fall down by his sides, tries to not curl them into fists.

“You stole my agent,” Oleg says, the Russian clipped and short on his tongue. Illya knows the sound well, too well. He knows it’s only a very small mistake that will tip Oleg over the edge.

He takes a breath and forces back the static slowly building. “I helped Dmitri leave. When he asked for it. I’m not moving until you turn around and go back to Moscow, on your own. There’s nothing for you here.”

“Dmitri belongs to _me_,” Oleg snaps. “I made him, I dragged him from a useless existence to my side, to turn him into the perfect weapon for our motherland that you turned your back on, and this is how he repays me? By killing two agents, turning his back on everything that I have done for him?” He scoffs. “I will not have it.”

“It has nothing to do with you anymore,” Illya spits. “You would kill Dmitri, trying to make him into what you think you need from him. You would have killed me. Another year under you and I would have been dead. I would have died in some godforsaken country on an impossible mission. Everyone could see it. Except you.”

He has known Oleg for so long now. He has spent countless hours learning his expressions, his movements, to better predict when to stay quiet or when to duck. But there’s a look on his face that Illya doesn’t think he’s ever seen.

If he didn’t know any better, he might call it regret.

“I don’t want Dmitri dead,” Oleg says. “And I never wanted you dead. What mattered, what has always mattered, is getting the job done, and serving our country. It’s too late for you, but Dmitri can still serve our country like he is meant to. Give him back to me, Kuryakin, and I’ll forget that his negligence killed two agents. Dmitri is worth more than they were anyway.”

The rage that courses through Illya is unlike anything he’s felt before. “He is not mine to give! He does not belong to anyone! He has made his decision, and I will not hand him back to you like a toy of yours that I stole. I will not stand by and watch you kill him like you have killed so many others.”

Oleg scoffs. “You are being dramatic, Kuryakin. I am harsh, yes, but only to get the job done. I have done nothing to you that hasn’t been required in the service of our country.”

“You broke us,” Illya says. His voice feels cold on his lips. “You took us and moulded us until we could depend on nothing but you and had nowhere but that place. And you broke us into pieces. You pitted us against each other until we were willing to destroy someone else just to gain a second of your approval. I suppose it made it easier for you, setting us against each other and letting us tear each other to pieces. Less work for you to do.”

Oleg scoffs. “You’ve become soft,” he sneers. “Spent too much time away. I could see it as soon as you stepped back into Lubyanka. I knew you weren’t going to get the job done, not like you used to do. And now you’ve corrupted Dmitri as well, swayed him to your side with honeyed words and false promises of a better day. Did you ever actually believe the bullshit that Alexander preached, from his lofty perch above the rest of us in the dirt? Or did you just want to pretend that you had crawled your way out of this filth, that you were better than the rest of us?” He spits on the ground in front of Illya. “You’ve lost everything that ever made you worth my time.”

A tremble runs through Illya. He breathes until he can unclench his jaw, but the tremble doesn’t go away. “Alexander Waverly was a better man than you have ever tried to be,” he growls.

Oleg scoffs. “Alexander was a dangerous idealist who refused to recognise the real world.”

“He never hit me,” Illya snaps. “He never threw an ashtray at my head, or sent me out on missions when I hadn’t even stopped bleeding from the last one. He never threatened me with a gulag if I stepped out of line. It’s a low bar, I know, but somehow I still managed to do my job, and do it better than I ever did with you.”

“You will leave Dmitri alone,” he says, his voice a low growl. “You will walk away and go back to Moscow, and you will leave Dmitri alone to be so much better than you would have ever given him the chance to be. You will leave Napoleon and I alone, you will leave Gaby and Waverly alone, and you will go back to Lubyanka. And when the next person walks out, when the next one realises that they don’t deserve what you’ve done to them, you will not touch them. You will stay in Lubyanka. And you will _let. Them. Go_.”

Oleg’s face is turning slowly red. “How dare you- I made you, Illya! Anything that you were ever worth, I gave to you. I know who you really are, Illya. I know the things that you have done.”

“That I did for _you_,” Illya snarls. “I lied and killed for you, to protect _you_. You made it so that I saw no other way to survive. But I found my way out. I pulled my way out from under you and I did that myself, I did all of that _without you_. Dmitri is going to have the same way out, he’s going to have that same chance, and you will _never_ be able to hurt him again.”

“You’ll pay for this,” Oleg snarls. “I’ll make sure you’ll pay.”

Illya scoffs. “I have paid you a thousand times over. It is done. It is over. And it’s already too late. The others know what has happened here.” He steps forwards, and Oleg steps back away from him. “Dmitri doesn’t deserve how you treated him. _I __never deserved it._ I am done with letting you think you own me, I am finished letting you have a claim over me. I _never_ belonged to you, and I owe you _nothing_.”

In that moment, rain dripping down his face, in the middle of a Parisian street, Illya sees Oleg.

He sees an old, tired man, hunched under his umbrella.

“You’ll pay for this,” Oleg says again.

Illya turns for the door. He falls back into English as he says one last thing over his shoulder, thrown at Oleg’s feet.

“As my husband would say? Put it on my fucking tab.”

0-o-0-o-0

It’s barely been ten minutes when the door to the conference room opens. Napoleon looks up to see Illya standing in the doorway. “Peril?” he asks, slowly getting to his feet. In the chair opposite him, Dmitri is clutching the arms of the chair so tightly that his knuckles have gone white.

Illya blinks, and looks to Dmitri. “He won’t be coming after you anymore,” he says. “You’re safe.”

Dmitri slumps back in the chair. “Thank you,” he mutters, eyes closed as he sucks in quick breaths. “Thank you.”

Napoleon breathes out a sigh of relief. “Well, now that’s all sorted I suggest we- Peril?”

A fine tremble has picked up and began to run through Illya’s body, his hands clenching and unclenching at his sides. Napoleon studies his face, and his heart sinks a little when he recognises the expression on Illya’s face. He’s seen it before. He’s watched Illya fight against it to try and get them somewhere safe before he can’t cling on anymore, watched it appear in the middle of the night when he’s woken up screaming.

Napoleon reaches out and gently takes Illya’s hands, tugging him further into the room. Illya gives him a wide-eyed look, breathing harshly between clenched teeth. “Give us a few minutes, Dmitri,” Napoleon says over his shoulder, not looking away from Illya. “Don’t leave the building, though.”

Dmitri glances between the two of them. “I’ll just…wait outside.” He shuts the door quietly behind him.

“Peril,” Napoleon says, gently squeezing Illya’s hands. “Hey, Illya. Look at me, love?”

Illya shrugs him off, and Napoleon lets him go as he stalks to one end of the room and then back again, hands clenched into fists. Napoleon waits him out, and moves the one valuable-looking vase off a side table and onto the floor. “Whenever you’re ready,” he says, trying to pitch his voice low and reassuring even as a thrum of worry slowly works its way through him.

Illya breathes out sharply. He spins on his heel and grabs the back of one of the chairs. For a moment he’s frozen, tension crackling off him in waves, and then with a wordless shout the chair is flung across the room. Another one follows it, crashing into the wall as Illya spins to Napoleon.

“It was _wrong_!” he shouts, his voice raw. “It was wrong, what he did to me. Everything he did, everything he told me was _necessary_. It was wrong! And I never deserved it. I never deserved _any _of it.”

Illya stares at him, and the anger on his face slowly gives way to a horrible uncertainty as he stands there, thousands of miles from the country he once swore his life to. “It was wrong,” he says again, his voice cracking until he can barely get the words out. “Wasn’t it?”

It breaks Napoleon’s heart.

Even after all these years, all the episodes and nightmares and struggle to find some sort of normalcy, even after everything he’s just been through, Illya still isn’t sure.

“Oh, Illya.” Napoleon gently steps forwards, slowly reaching forwards until Illya, in jagged, broken movements, lets him take his hands and carefully unfurl them from clenched fists. He holds onto them. “Peril. Love. Listen to me.”

Illya’s hands tighten on his, but Napoleon doesn’t pull away. “It was wrong,” he says firmly. “What Oleg did to you was wrong. And you never, ever deserved it.” He stares up at Illya. “It was wrong,” he says again. “And I am, and always have been, so sorry that it was done to you.”

Illya’s expression crumples. Napoleon pulls him forwards without hesitation, wrapping him up in his arms as Illya’s weight falls onto him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just gently shushes Illya as he sobs into the crook of Napoleon’s neck, his entire body shuddering. Napoleon runs a hand up and down his back, over and over again, as Illya shakes in his arms and sobs out years of fear and regret and hurt into the expensive wool of Napoleon’s suit jacket.

“You’re okay,” Napoleon murmurs eventually, when Illya has slowly quietened enough, and his breath has steadied a little as it ghosts across Napoleon’s neck. “You’re okay, Peril, you’re going to be fine. All the hard work has already been done.”

Illya slowly pulls back from Napoleon, untangling his arms from underneath Napoleon’s suit jacket. Napoleon smiles softly up at him, and reaches up to wipe a few tears away from under his eyes. “There you are,” he says. He leans up and presses a kiss to Illya’s forehead. Illya’s breath hitches.

“Where’s Dmitri?” he asks, his voice little more than a rasp.

“Outside,” Napoleon replies. “Knowing him- well, knowing you, and knowing that you’re probably similar enough to extrapolate some scenarios- look, he’s probably sitting right outside that door and waiting for us.”

Illya breathes in. He runs a hand over his face, rubbing at his eyes. “Okay.” His breath hitches again, and he presses his hands to his eyes. “Leon.”

“Yeah, I know,” Napoleon says softly. “Sit down for a moment, love.” He pulls a chair over and gently sits Illya down. There’s a fridge in the corner, disguised as another boring minimalist cabinet. He pulls out a bottle of water and presses it into Illya’s hands.

Illya is shaking too much to undo the bottle cap. Napoleon takes it back and crouches down next to where he’s slumped in the chair, twisting the cap off and handing the bottle back. “Slow sips,” he says gently. He takes Illya’s other hand, smoothing his thumb over the back of his knuckles and feeling all the little indents and scars collected there. “There you go, love.”

He doesn’t know how long he crouches there as Illya slowly sips at the water and pulls himself back together. Tears slowly drip down his cheeks, and every so often Napoleon reaches up to wipe them away.

It’s a hell of a thing that Moscow did to him in the name of the country that Illya loves so much, but he thinks they might just end up okay in the end.

His legs have fallen asleep by the time that Illya takes a breath and sits up. “Right,” he mutters, rubbing at his face. “I can- we don’t have time for this. We need to get Dmitri back to London.”

“We’ll do that,” Napoleon says, getting up and wincing at the burn in his legs. “You check with Gaby, I’ll get us a flight out of here. But first, I’m getting all of us something to eat. Dmitri looks like he could use a good meal, and we are in Paris. There are a few chefs around this area that I know will deliver if I call them.”

Illya snorts. “Of course they will, Cowboy,” he says. “Going to make embassy send out driver to pick up some steaks as well?”

“Now that you mention it,” Napoleon says, a grin coming across his face as Illya’s voice slowly returns to normal. “But no, I doubt the ambassador will be too happy with me if I do that. We’re already stealing this conference room.”

Illya huffs the barest of laughs. “We should let Dmitri back in before he starts getting worried,” he says. “I’ll call Gaby, see where she is with paperwork.” He turns for the door, and then pauses. The question on Napoleon’s lips is abruptly knocked out of him when Illya turns back and wraps his arms around him.

“Thank you, Cowboy,” he mutters, his voice muffled in Napoleon’s shoulder.

Napoleon hugs him back, pressing a kiss to his temple. “Any time, Peril,” he says softly. “Any time.”

Dmitri is sat on the floor across from them as they open the door, knees drawn up to his chest. A security guard is watching further down the hall. As the door opens, he scrambles to his feet. “Sir?”

Illya hesitates, and then steps forwards to pull Dmitri into a rough embrace. Dmitri goes willingly, hands clutching at the back of Illya’s jacket. Napoleon watches as he trembles, and then his shoulders start shaking. “It’s over,” Napoleon says softly, one hand settling on Dmitri’s trembling shoulder. “It’s over now.”

The look that Illya gives him over Dmitri’s head, of exhaustion and gratitude and everything that has been built between them over these long, long years that he would never trade for anything else, makes tears prick at the corner of Napoleon’s eyes. He clears his throat. “Let’s get going,” he says. “We’ve got a plane to catch.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know. I'm very mean. But this is closure and catharsis that Illya has never really gotten to have so far, and it was so, so important for me that he finally really gets it, and realises that what Oleg (and more importantly what Moscow) did to him was wrong. I have complicated thoughts about Oleg, which may eventually spin out into another short story (I absolutely promise nothing at the moment), which I won't go into here, but say something in the comments if you'd like to know the rough plans I have for that, and for a future conversation that might happen between Illya and Oleg!
> 
> Illya calling Napoleon 'Leon' is my weakness, I have to stop myself writing it all the time so it doesn't lose the impact when I use it. We're really getting close to the end now, there's just a few more narrative and emotional threads I need to tie up before I can bring this all to a close.


	25. UNCLE

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ohh we're so near the end now. There are some loose threads still to tie off, and this chapter is really tying off Dmitri's arc this chapter. There'll be one more full chapter after that, and then a slightly shorter epilogue, and then it's done. I can't believe we're actually near the end of this story now, it's completely caught me by surprise that it's finally coming to an end!

Dmitri takes one step off the plane before he’s pulling his coat back off, shoving it in his bag. “You get used to it,” Illya says as they flash diplomatic papers at the border control and slip past all the disgruntled tourists. “Buy lighter coats, and don’t bother with thermals or snow boots. You won’t need them.”

Gatwick is crowded, as always, and Dmitri sticks close to Illya as they go through customs and get on the packed shuttle to the south terminal. Tourists surround them; families wrangling small children, people in sharp business suits already on their phones, a group of teenagers decked out in festival clothes and giggling in hushed tones. Napoleon leans into Illya a little, Illya wrapping an arm around his waist. One of the teenagers, a rainbow pin on their shirt, glances up and gives them a small smile. Napoleon smiles back.

Napoleon takes one look at the entrance to Gatwick train station once they get off the shuttle, the gaggles of tourists streaming through it, at the haggard look on Dmitri’s face and the bags under Illya’s eyes, and makes an executive decision. “I’ll flag down a taxi.”

“We can get the train to Victoria, and the tube back home,” Illya says. “A taxi from here is going to cost-”

Napoleon cuts him off. “If you can look me in the eye and tell me that you don’t think, after everything that has happened just in today, that going on the Tube at-” he checks his watch- “literally the definition of rush hour won’t end with either you, me or Dmitri having some sort of panic attack from the crowds, then I will happily get on the tube.” He gives Illya a look. “Nothing? Taxi it is.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but slings his coat over his arm. “I’m not paying for it,” he mutters.

“I wasn’t ever going to ask your socialist sensibilities to shell out for a taxi ride, Peril,” Napoleon says. “But our British bank account is the shared account, so actually you are also paying for it.” He heads for the taxi rank outside arrivals.

“I can get Uber,” Dmitri offers. “It’s because of me that you’re here-”

“First thing to learn about this place,” Napoleon says, cutting Dmitri off gently. “If you’re in London, you get a black cab. They’re better drivers, better conversationalists, and they actually know the city and don’t rely on satnavs. There’s this whole test they have to take where they have to be able to know the whole of Greater London in their heads, it’s-”

“Cowboy,” Illya mutters.

“Right. Taxi.”

London rises out of the ground as they approach until it’s towering above them. Dmitri is staring out the window as the cab driver slips through the traffic lanes, eyes flicking over the buildings and the people walking by. Illya glances over at him.

“One foot in front of the other, remember,” he murmurs in Russian. “One step at a time.”

Dmitri huffs the barest of laughs. “All the way to India.”

The front entrance to UNCLE is boring and unobtrusive, glass and stainless steel, the sound of their feet on the marble floors echoing through the lobby. Despite the years Napoleon and Illya have spent here, they’ve only walked through the front door a handful of times, and the secretary at the front desk is unfamiliar to them.

The front lobby faces a bank and a hedge fund, but the back entrance is opposite a café that does the best millionaire’s shortbread in London and is quite willing to sell coffee with illegally high amounts of caffeine to sleep-deprived agents at three in the morning. None of the agents use the front lobby anymore.

The elevator slides open as they cross the lobby and Gaby, immaculate in a suit sharp enough to cut, steps out. “Darlings,” she says, a familiar smile on her face. “Nice to see the two of you. And Dmitri. Welcome to the United Network of Command and Law Enforcement.”

“Perfect timing, as always,” Napoleon remarks.

Gaby smirks. “Oh, I just tracked your flight, watched which taxi you took from the Gatwick security cameras and then tracked it. I got in the elevator when it pulled up outside.”

She takes them upstairs, the elevator opening up to a familiar bustle of the agents’ floor. Dmitri hesitates at the edge of it, and Illya gives him a firm nudge to follow Gaby. Agents glance up to stare, but at a shake of Gaby’s head they turn back to their own work. The noise of agents typing, the hiss and click of the coffee machine, the quiet murmur of people working together all slowly seeps into the background as Napoleon and Illya breathe it in. Dmitri slowly relaxes under Illya’s grip on his shoulder, and follows Gaby.

“You’ve put me in a hell of a position,” Gaby says as soon as her office door shuts behind them. “I’m going out on a limb here for you, Dmitri.”

Illya squeezes Dmitri’s shoulder. “And I’m very grateful, Gaby,” he says, a warning growl to his voice. “Oleg came to Paris, but I turned him away. He should leave you alone now.”

Gaby hums. “If he doesn’t, there’s plenty I can do to make him back off.” She turns to Dmitri. “If it’s worth my time.”

Dmitri straightens under her gaze. “It is, ma’am.”

“God no, it’s Director Teller, or Teller,” Gaby says with a grimace. “Don’t ma’am me. Can you give me any assurances that you won’t just return to Moscow the second someone asks after you, or that you make a mistake here? It’s happened before. The familiar can be tempting, even if it was-”

“Hell?” Dmitri says. “I know. But I’m willing to burn bridges if I need to, Director Teller. Whatever ones haven’t been burnt already. I want to be here.”

“Why?”

That makes Dmitri pause. He glances back at Illya, and then at Napoleon. “Because I tried to do something better in Moscow, and I got two people killed. I didn’t mean to hurt- that doesn’t really matter. It happened. I want to do better, I want to _be _better, and I know I can do that here.” He glances back at Illya again. “I know it can be done,” he says quietly.

Gaby hums. “You’ll be on probation for a few months. I know you are a competent spetsnaz soldier, and from what Illya says, you could be a damn good agent. But I don’t know that yet. You’ll be under the direct and pretty constant supervision of a senior agent, who will report back to me regularly. Step out of line and you’ll answer to me.”

Dmitri arches a brow. “I suppose you won’t be giving me any reason to step out of line, then.”

Gaby glares at Illya briefly, but it softens when Illya shifts closer to Dmitri. “If you have a problem with what my decisions are, then you come to me, and we talk. This isn’t Moscow, Dmitri. You can ask me about anything you’re concerned about and I will not level any reprisals at you.” A small smile curls her lips. “I know this is going to be very different to Moscow, and you’re not going to adjust instantly. But I’d like to see you making an effort, and you could start that by going out to the main bullpen and introducing yourself to the rest of my agents.”

Dmitri shifts uneasily, but turns and leaves, shutting the door behind him. Gaby turns her attention to Napoleon and Illya. “I’m sticking my neck out a little here,” she says. “He better be good.”

“He’s angry, and he’s guilty,” Illya says quietly. “He needs to be shown that there’s a better way to do this than what he was taught. What was beaten into him by Oleg.”

“And what makes you so sure I can do that for him?” Gaby asks, leaning against her desk. “It’s not perfect here, Illya, and you damn well know that. And I’m taking a risk on an unknown.”

Illya shrugs. “You did it for me,” he says quietly. “You, Waverly, all the people in this place.” He glances over at Napoleon, and entwines their fingers together. “You taught me there was a better way to do this. You can do it again for Dmitri.”

Gaby groans. “I can just see you lining up adoption papers in your head already,” she mutters. “Fine, yes, I’ll look after Dmitri. Might be fun to spoil his obvious idealisation of you with some of the funnier stories I have. I’ll have to put him up with one of the other agents tonight, I don’t have any UNCLE lodgings available, but-”

“He can stay with us,” Napoleon says. “Just bring him over whenever you’re done for the day. I’ll make something for dinner.”

“Cowboy,” Illya murmurs. “You don’t have to-”

“The moment I heard about Dmitri, I knew you were going to make him family,” Napoleon says firmly. “I’m your husband, so that makes him my family too. He can stay at ours until he has somewhere of his own.”

The tightening of Illya’s hand around his is all he needs to reassure him that he made the right decision. Gaby hums. “And you two? Is everything okay?”

Napoleon glances up at Illya. “It will be,” he says softly.

They leave Dmitri at UNCLE in the capable care of Gaby, and they go home.

Neither of them talk as Illya locks the front door behind them and dumps his bag in the hallway, hanging up the suit bag of his dress uniform next to Napoleon’s pea coat and his own great coat. Napoleon breathes in, trying to quash a stirring of anxiety. “I’ll put the kettle on.”

They sit across from each other at the kitchen table, mugs of tea clutched between hands. Napoleon traces patterns in the wood grain across the table with a fingertip. “I’ll pick Laika up from Mark tomorrow evening,” he says down at the table.

Illya hums. “I can come with you,” he offers. “We should probably explain to Mark…some of it, at least.”

Napoleon nods. They sit in silence for a few long minutes more, periodically sipping at the tea in front of them. Illya glances around the kitchen, eyes lingering slightly on the drinks cabinet.

Napoleon puts his mug down. “I don’t really know what to say,” he admits, looking up at Illya. “I’m sorry. I love you. I- I’m sorry?”

Illya huffs a small laugh. “You said that one already, Cowboy.”

“I’ll say it as many times as I have to,” Napoleon says. He reaches across and gently grips Illya’s hand, tugging it away from where it’s curled around the mug. It’s his favourite, the one with penguins on it that Napoleon bought on impulse in a Norwegian airport. “Because I am, Peril.”

“What for?” Illya asks.

“For…for not realising that all of this was lurking below the surface,” Napoleon says eventually. “For letting Alexi get to me, letting _Delphine_, of all the people I could have ever run into, get to me. For not being there when you went back to a hell that you’d barely survived the first time.”

Illya’s lips twist. “That last one wasn’t your fault. I was the one who left.”

“I wasn’t the one who didn’t see how much you needed to go back,” Napoleon says quietly. “If only to really remember why that place was so bad.”

Illya shivers slightly at that, and his grip tightens on Napoleon’s hand. “I know, Peril,” Napoleon just says. It’s going to take a long time before Illya fully gets through the realisation he’d had out on the wet streets of Paris, the sudden epiphany that he had never deserved what had been done to him. But it’s slowly coming.

Illya clears his throat. “In that case, I’m sorry too. For also not realising how…precarious this was. And for not seeing how much those stories meant to you. How much responsibility you were taking for it.” He huffs a brief laugh. “Markos would have liked you, you know. Seen right through you in a moment, but liked you anyway.”

“Yeah?” Napoleon squeezes Illya’s hand. “Tell me a little about him. He must have been pretty great, to stick with you all those years.”

Illya smiles softly. “He was a good friend. It was difficult to be that, in that place, but he tried anyway.” He pauses, looking down at the dregs of his tea. “I should have made more effort, after leaving, to stay in touch. I should have-”

“Hey, none of that,” Napoleon says gently. He tips Illya’s chin up with a finger. “You both did the best that you could in an environment that did its utmost to beat the idea of forming friendships out of you. You did the best by Markos that you could at the time, and Markos did the best by you that he could.”

Illya huffs a quiet laugh. “When I told him about…that you and I were together, I was so scared. We were sat in this dingy pub in Dublin- remember that mission outside Derry, when you gave yourself a concussion and landed yourself in a hotel with Gaby checking on you every hour? Markos happened to be in Belfast for something, and we met in Dublin for an evening. I thought he was going to hit me, or storm out of the pub. Instead he stood up and pulled me into a hug so tight it hurt. Told me he was just glad I was okay, but that I could have picked a better person than an American.”

Napoleon laughs. “He could have been more flattering, but I’ll allow it.” He squeezes Illya’s hand. “I’m glad he didn’t punch you.”

There’s a lot more behind those words, enough to make Illya’s breath hitch and his eyes water. He presses his hand to his eyes. “Sorry.”

“Don’t ever apologise for something like this,” Napoleon murmurs. He smooths his thumb across the back of Illya’s hand. “I’m sorry that you lost him, Peril.”

Illya nods, his lips twisting. He wipes at his eyes again. “I miss him,” he gets out. “I just…miss him.”

Napoleon gets up and circles the table. He pulls Illya into an embrace, wrapping his arms around him. “I know, Peril,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to Illya’s temple as he grieves. “I know.”

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon opens the door just before the lock yields under Gaby’s key. “I never gave you that.”

Gaby presses a kiss to his cheek as she pushes past him inside, already shrugging off her coat and hanging it up. “I got fed up of picking it, so I had a key made,” she says. “What’s for dinner?”

“Whatever is in the freezer,” Napoleon answers. He looks out the door to see Dmitri hovering uncertainly there, hands stuffed in his pockets and a duffel bag slung over one shoulder. “Come on in, Dmitri,” he says. “Guest room is all made up for you.”

Dmitri hesitates again as he steps over the threshold. “You don’t have to go to all this trouble,” he says quietly.

“No, but we will anyway.” Napoleon shuts the door behind them and all but tugs Dmitri’s coat off of him to hang up. “Go get yourself a drink, Gaby, Illya is in the kitchen. Dmitri, come with me and I’ll show you where you’re sleeping.”

Dmitri obediently follows him upstairs. “You really don’t have to do this,” he says again when Napoleon leads him into the guest room. “I can just find somewhere else to sleep. Don’t feel- you’re not obligated to help me.”

Napoleon sits down on the edge of the bed. “Dmitri. My husband risked a lot to bring you here and away from Moscow.” He sees guilt twist across Dmitri’s face, and sighs. “I didn’t phrase that right. Sorry, it’s been a long few days.”

Dmitri huffs the barest of laughs. “You can say that again.”

Napoleon gestures at him until Dmitri gets the hint and sits down gingerly on the bed. “I do have the barest idea of everything you’ve been through,” Napoleon says gently, turning to him. “I am married to Illya, after all. And I know that right now, chances are that you’re only thinking in terms of what you’re going to owe to Illya and Gaby and myself for what we’re doing. But you don’t owe us anything, Dmitri.”

Dmitri glances away from him. “Illya saved my life,” he mutters. “Even before I ever met him. And now Gaby- and you’re just letting me walk in here like I live here, like I somehow deserve-”

“Don’t even think of it like that,” Napoleon interrupts, his voice firm. “We aren’t doing this to leverage favours from you down the line, or to make you owe us, even though I know it’s hard to think of it in any other way right now. We’re doing this because we care for you, and because we want you to be okay.” He gently grips Dmitri’s shoulder. “The moment that I heard about you, Dmitri, the moment that I found out Illya was helping you leave Moscow, I knew that Illya had decided to slot you into our odd little family here. And Illya is my husband, which makes you my family too.”

Dmitri looks like he’s about to cry. Napoleon gives his shoulder a little shake. “Only if you want it,” he adds. “It can be a little mad around here.”

Dmitri laughs wetly. “I think I can handle a little of that,” he gets out. He rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Thank you. I- I can’t even begin to put it into words, but…thank you.”

“You’re very welcome, Dmitri.” Napoleon gets to his feet. “Feel free to just stay up here and go to sleep if you’re too tired. Dinner should be in about half an hour.”

Dmitri nods, and Napoleon gently shuts the door behind him as he heads out. “He’s exhausted,” he says as he comes back into the kitchen to see Gaby emptying a wine bottle into her glass as Illya searches through the freezer. “I’m not surprised, with everything that’s happened.”

Illya hums. “You only know the half of it,” he murmurs. “Cowboy, there’s a frozen lasagne in here, but not much else.”

“I said that he could just stay upstairs and go to sleep if he wanted to,” Napoleon continues, taking the lasagne from Illya and turning the oven on. “But we’ll see. Think he’ll settle in, Gaby?”

Gaby finishes taking a large drink of wine. “Early days. Very early days. God, he reminds me of you when you first came to UNCLE, Illya, though less of the tendency to smash things and more flinching at sudden movements.” She grimaces. “Fucking Oleg. Don’t worry, we’ll work through it. I’m going through senior agents to pair him up with, seeing who will work well with him. Any tips?”

“Time, and patience,” Illya says, not looking up from where he’s chopping up vegetables on the countertop. “Pair him with one of the kinder senior agents, but not someone too quiet, or he will think he’s done something wrong. He can take criticism, or people telling him he’s got something wrong, but you need to explain it or he won’t really trust it. He needs to know that he isn’t- that you’re not going to hurt him. But don’t make it obvious, or he’ll get spooked and won’t come to you if he thinks something is wrong.” He shrugs, setting the knife down. “Be kind to him. He’ll understand it eventually.”

Napoleon presses a hand to the small of Illya’s back as he reaches around him for the oven timer. “I’m sure he will, Peril.”

Napoleon is hovering in that way he has, where it’s like he can barely bring himself to move away from Illya once he’s close. Normally it can start to grate on Illya after a while, the constant brush of Napoleon against him, but now he finds himself closing the gap, gently entwining his fingers with Napoleon’s as he sits next to him at the table. Gaby gives him a knowing look over the rim of her wine glass.

“Fill in the details for me, Illya,” she says as Napoleon tops up her wine glass. “What happened in Moscow?”

Illya breathes, lets Napoleon smooth a hand down his back, and then he explains everything.

By the end of it, Gaby is scowling at her glass, and Napoleon’s hand is tight on the fabric of Illya’s jumper. “Well, I’ll make sure that Dmitri knows absolutely none of that is going to happen under my watch,” she says firmly. “Are you two going to be okay? It’s been a hell of a lot for the both of you.”

Illya glances over at Napoleon, who steadily meets his gaze. It feels like a promise.

Gaby hums, and pulls a thin card out of her pocket. “Well, this is the number for a therapist that is linked with UNCLE but practices in the city. You can talk to them about UNCLE, they have security clearance. And they also do couples’ therapy.” She slides the card across the table. “It might be a good place to just talk out the literal metric fuckton of shit you have both been through with a rational sounding board.”

“I distinctly remember occasions where you hid in workshops to avoid talking to the UNCLE therapists,” Napoleon points out. “When did you start advocating for them?”

“It’s been a long time since then, darling,” Gaby says softly. “We have seen so much. Each person in this house has something different that keeps them up at night, makes them hesitate before getting onto the Tube, traps them inside their own head. We’re all a little stuck, in places. Sometimes you need a little help to find your way out.”

Napoleon slowly reaches out and pockets the card. “We’ll talk about it,” he promises.

Dmitri appears, hovering in the doorway, just as Napoleon pulls the reheated lasagne out of the oven. “It’s nothing special, but it’ll do. Come sit down, Dmitri. You’ll feel less tired once you get some food in you.”

“Or fall asleep at the table,” Gaby mutters over the rim of her wine glass. “I’ve seen both of you fall asleep at one dinner table or another. Don’t stand on ceremony here, Dmitri, not in this house. We’re not at work here.”

“Let’s not talk about work here,” Illya says quietly as he takes a plate of lasagne from Napoleon. “We don’t need it tonight.”

“Agreed,” Gaby mutters, draining her wine glass and pushing it forwards for Illya to top up. “So. Who has been watching Bake Off?”

“Bake Off?” Dmitri asks tentatively.

Gaby grins. “Oh, there is _so _much I have to teach you.”

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby stays the night, falling asleep on their bed long after Dmitri collapses on the guest bed. They fall into place around her easily, curling around her small frame. For a moment they’re years ago, sharing one bed in rickety safehouses and posh hotels, exhausted and battered and bruised, holding onto Illya after getting him back from a terrorist cell, Napoleon after Milan, Gaby when she collapsed from exhaustion in the workshop. They’re falling back years into the past, curled together on that bed, and the smell of cordite and engine oil and Italian leather hovers in the room, freezing wind across pines and the heat of sand under a sun and everything in between lingering in the spaces between them.

Gaby stirs and Napoleon tucks her more securely against him, Illya draped along the length of his back with an arm wrapped tightly around his waist. The spaces between them disappear, and they breathe easily for the rest of the night.

The morning comes, and the world moves on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you are in London, do try and take a black cab over an Uber. They're a much loved part of the city and they honestly do know the entire city in their head, it takes years for them to learn it all.
> 
> Gaby is obsessed with Bake Off and dragged Illya and Napoleon into watching it- Illya isn't that bothered, but Napoleon is now a die hard fan who explains to Illya, at length, what he would do for each challenge and why it's a bad idea to try and pull off spun sugar in a very humid tent.
> 
> Also, the scene where Illya finally grieves Markos was something I only put in maybe a month or so ago, long after most of this was written already, and I'm so glad I did, because this brings the story full circle. That very first scene, Illya's dream, is because he can't let go of Markos properly. He doesn't know how to grieve him, because Moscow never taught him how to- it never taught any of them how to, which is why Alexi turned to rage instead of grief and began this whole thing. But now, we've finally come full circle, and Illya finally grieves the death of his friend.
> 
> I've just done three exams in three days for my master's finals (why did I decide to do chemistry?) and I am officially Dead. So dead. I have three more next week, which I am so not looking forwards to considering how hard these three were, so comments and kudos would be much, much loved!


	26. Moving On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Napoleon and Illya move on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the last full chapter of this story. I'm very, very tired right now (five exams down, one more to go as of today) so excuse the notes for not being as eloquent as usual. There will be an epilogue on Monday evening, after I've done my final exam, that will tie everything together and round the entire story off, and in which I will gush so much more about how grateful I am for all of you. Thank you all for the incredible response to this story, it means the world to me.

Napoleon finds himself outside of Joanna’s office on Monday. After a long moment staring at the wood, he knocks.

Joanna is surrounded by precarious stacks of books and paper strewn across her desk, more piles of books creating a miniature maze across the floor. “Ah, Solo,” she says, a smile slowly growing across her face. “To what do I owe the pleasure.”

Napoleon shuts the door behind him. “I…I wanted to apologise,” he gets out. “Firstly, for ignoring you this past week. I thought…well, I knew you’d heard what I’d said to Anderson and I was pretty sure you were going to fire me.”

Joanna scoffs. “I wanted to congratulate you for having the guts to say that to Anderson,” she corrects. “He wanders around here like he owns the place because he has a few prizes, and most people are far too intimidated to say anything.” She huffs a laugh. “Of course you would be perfectly willing to put him right.”

The relief that permeates Napoleon nearly sends him staggering. He sinks into a chair at Joanna’s look, and gives into the urge to put his head in his hands. “God, I got this all wrong.”

“Well, at least you know that now.” Joanna leans forwards, studying Napoleon intently enough that he looks away. “You do know that now, right?”

Napoleon hums. “It’s been a long few days. Illya’s back, by the way. Brought a kid back from Moscow with him, got him out from under Oleg’s thumb. He’s with Gaby now.”

Joanna hums. “That’s a lot. How’s Illya doing?”

“It’s hit him hard.” Napoleon rubs a hand across his face. “Losing Markos, then Alexi, then going back to Moscow and watching the beginnings of it with Dmitri- the kid he got out. I think he only realised when he went back just how horrible it was for him. And that he never deserved it.” He sighs. “Gaby gave us the number for a good therapist. You know, one that can actually hear about the things we got up to.”

Joanna huffs a laugh. “Yeah, those are hard to find. So, you’re getting somewhere?”

“I…yes. I think so.” Napoleon shrugs. “I want to, and I think that’s the important part.”

Joanna’s smile grows. “You know, you’ve come a long, long way since you first walked through these doors, Solo. In the past few months I’ve been hearing more and more how highly the students think of you, how dedicated you are to them. That didn’t drop off this past month, especially not with everything you’ve been doing for René. I think you’re doing just fine.”

“Anyone would have done what I’ve been doing for René,” Napoleon says automatically. He pauses. “Well. Most people, probably.”

“Nobody else did,” Joanna points out gently. “You were the one who stepped up to help them.”

“Someone else should have gotten there first,” Napoleon says. “René spent weeks getting upset in the library, struggling with all their classes just because they’re not as brilliant in a language that they don’t know. And I was only able to help them because I happened to be in the library at the right time! How many other students are there who are struggling because they don’t have the right people there to listen and to help? So much of it comes down to accessibility, and money, and just not knowing where to start because everything is one big mess and they don’t know who to go to.” He cuts himself off, breathing out sharply. “It’s not fair. We should do better to make it fair.”

Joanna arches a brow. She leans back in her chair, crossing her arms and watching Napoleon with a slow smirk curling her lips. “Go on, then,” she says with a nod at him. “What do you want to do about it?”

The very start of something begin to coalesce in Napoleon’s mind, wisps of mist around an idea until water starts to condense and fall. It feels like a new beginning, and unbidden, there’s a sudden smile on his face.

René is outside his office when he gets there, leant against the wall as they talk to Cassie. “I wanted to ask you about doctorates,” they say as soon as they see Napoleon. “Have you got a minute?”

“Of course,” Napoleon answers. “I see Cassie has got to you, then.”

Cassie laughs. “Careful, Solo, or I’ll start corrupting every student I can get my hands on, and you’ll have far too many PhD students to know what to do with. Have a good weekend?”

“Yeah,” Napoleon finds himself saying. “Yeah. It was good.” He pauses, halfway into his office. “You remember the accessibility issues you were talking about a few weeks ago? I might have had some sort of an idea, and I’d like your input. And the input of any students who feel that they have something to say. If I’m going to do something like this, try and help as many students who need it as I can, then I want to do this right.”

0-o-0-o-0

He wakes up, unable to remember why he woke or why there’s a vague sense of unease crawling across his skin. Illya is fast asleep next to him, one hand loosely slung over his waist. Napoleon gently eases it off him as he sits up.

He doesn’t know how long he just sits there, staring at the vague outlines of their bedroom only just visible in the darkness. It must be about three in the morning, he thinks, but that’s only a guess. In the vague darkness of London, only a sliver of soft yellow light from the streetlamps making it through the curtains, it could be any time.

Illya stirs next to him, and Napoleon feels him wake when he turns towards where he was lying and only encounters an empty bed. “Cowboy?” he murmurs.

“Still here, Peril,” Napoleon says absently. He’s staring at the chest of drawers across from the bed, trying to work out whether that vague shadow on top of it is an abandoned tie of his, or one of Illya’s flat caps.

There’s a rustle as Illya sits up, and then the warmth of his body as he drapes himself across Napoleon’s back. Napoleon gives in and leans back into him, his head coming to rest on Illya’s shoulder. “I’m fine,” he murmurs.

“How long have you been awake?” Illya asks.

Napoleon doesn’t answer, which is answer enough. Illya presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s shoulder over the old t-shirt he’s wearing, the Cyrillic nearly completely faded after years of use. “You should have woken me up.”

“You barely got any sleep last night,” Napoleon answers. He’d woken to the sound of Illya all but whimpering in his sleep last night, sheets twisted tight around him. Ever since Paris, ever since Illya collapsed into his arms under the sheer weight of the realisation of what had been done to him, the nightmares have been more common. The therapist says that it’s normal for things like this to resurface after confronting trauma, and that the frequency will fall away again, but that doesn’t make it any easier when Illya is trying so hard not to scream into Napoleon’s shirt as Napoleon holds him. “You’re still exhausted.”

He can feel Illya shrug. “I don’t mind.”

“I’m fine, Peril,” Napoleon says. “Just thinking too much to go back to sleep.”

“Just because your PTSD manifests in different ways to my PTSD, doesn’t make it less valid,” Illya murmurs into Napoleon’s neck, his voice still heavy and rough with sleep.

“I know that. I was in the room when the therapist told us that.” Napoleon turns his head enough to press a kiss to Illya’s jaw. “It’s fine.”

Illya hums, but he doesn’t move away. They sit there in silence for a few minutes, until the gnawing thoughts circling Napoleon’s mind start to coalesce.

“Do you think- you know the idea that I pitched to you last week, the fund for accessibility issues in the arts?” Illya hums, and Napoleon takes a breath. “Do you think it’s a good idea?”

Illya pulls back slightly, the warmth suddenly disappearing from Napoleon’s back, but before even the first worry starts buzzing under Napoleon’s skin Illya shifts around so he can see Napoleon, and takes his hands. “I think it is very good idea,” he says, “and you can certainly pull it off. It will help people.” He studies Napoleon’s face for a long moment, and then frowns. “What?”

Napoleon ducks his head. “What if I’m just…doing this because I want people to think I’m a good person? Because I am doing this partly because it’s what a good person would do. Does that make it a shitty idea? Should I just stop here before it gets any worse?”

Illya is silent for a long moment. “Let me get this right,” he says eventually. “You think that because you want to do something that good person would do, to make you feel better about yourself, that it’s not actually good thing to do?” His frown deepens. “I don’t know, Cowboy. I can’t answer philosophy questions.”

Napoleon snorts. “Very helpful, Peril. But I’m serious. What if I’m only doing this for attention?”

Illya hums. “Do you think that this fund will actually help students?”

“That is the whole point of it,” Napoleon points out dryly. “Stellar work so far.”

“Don’t sass me,” Illya says half-heartedly. “And who knows about this idea so far?”

“Cassie, because I asked what she would think about reception from the students, you, and Joanna.” Napoleon thinks for a moment. “Yeah, that’s it.”

Illya hums again. “Are you going to call it Napoleon Solo Charity Case Fund?”

Napoleon snorts. “God no, Peril. My name isn’t going to be anywhere on this, if I have a say in it. I’m sure I’ll have to do some publicity stuff, get the word out there, but it’s going to be run by people who actually know what they’re doing.”

Illya hums, again. “Just say what’s on your mind, Peril,” Napoleon says, trying not to snap as worry skitters beneath his skin.

“Do you remember- it was years ago, now, but when you were helping me come to terms with my own identity, you told me how you came out?” Illya asks. “And how you came to that?”

“Yeah, of course,” Napoleon replies. “What’s that got to do with anything?”

“Do you remember telling me about how you were in wardrobe-”

“Closet, you know the term is closet.”

“Fine, how you were in the _closet_ for so long because you thought you were only doing this for attention?” Illya shifts to catch Napoleon’s gaze. “You thought you were faking it for attention, despite having never told anyone that you were bi.”

“Yes, I was ridiculous as a teenager,” Napoleon says. “What of it?”

Illya shrugs. “This conversation we’re having now sounds very similar. You can’t hate yourself for believing you’re only doing this for attention when three other people know about this. This will be a good thing, Cowboy.”

“But is it good if I’m only doing it to make myself feel better?” Napoleon lets himself lean forwards and rests his head against Illya’s shoulder. “I don’t know, Peril.”

Illya smooths a hand through his hair, the touch so familiar and grounding that suddenly, Napoleon feels like he wants to cry. “I don’t know either, Cowboy,” he says softly. “But you want to be good person, _da_? So let yourself be good person. I don’t think anyone ever does anything just because it is right, they also want to _be _right, or good.” He sighs. “I think you are doing good things. Trying to be good person. I love that person, the one still trying to change people’s lives after all this time.”

Napoleon snorts softly. “I’m hardly defusing bombs anymore.”

“You are helping kids learn, and giving them place to feel respected. It is just as important.” Illya presses a kiss to the top of his head, and Napoleon’s breath hitches. “You never wanted to be soldier, or spy. You never wanted your life to have gone like that.”

Napoleon looks up. “I wouldn’t trade it,” he says suddenly. “If it meant losing you, and all we have now, I wouldn’t trade it. I couldn’t.”

Illya’s expression is unspeakably fond. “I know, Cowboy,” he says softly. “But now you’re helping other kids do what you couldn’t do. Maybe there’s kid out there who would join army instead of going to university, but then they find what you are going to create, and they can go to Cortauld and study like they wanted.” He presses a soft kiss to Napoleon’s lips. “That is important, _da_? That is good.”

Napoleon sighs. “I hate it when you make sense like that,” he mutters.

“You love me,” Illya says, a hint of teasing colouring his voice. He leans back and tugs Napoleon forwards, until they’re back in bed again, Napoleon lying across Illya’s chest.

“I really do, Peril,” he murmurs into Illya’s shoulder, slowly relaxing against Illya as his eyes start to flicker shut. “I really, really do.”

Illya is already halfway to sleep. “I know, Cowboy,” he murmurs.

Napoleon falls back asleep, Illya’s heartbeat a steady thud under his ear.

0-o-0-o-0

Napoleon catches him staring out of the kitchen window at the back garden, mug of tea long since gone cold in his hands. “Everything okay, Peril?”

“We should plant some more trees.”

He hadn’t meant to say that. But he’d been looking out the window and missing the snow that would be carpeting Moscow right now, missing the crisp white of it instead of all these shades of grey that permeate London, and then he had thought of the poplar fluff that covered Moscow in the spring, the fluff he had used to watch fall in flurries from those tall windows in the Kremlin, footsteps echoing out of time on marble floors.

“What was that, Peril?”

Illya shakes his head. “Forget it, Cowboy. It’s stupid.”

He feels Napoleon’s hands gently ease the mug of tea out of his grasp. He doesn’t look away from the kitchen window, from the grey sky and damp grass of the garden, the rain just about to start falling. A thousand miles away it’s snowing.

“Nothing is ever stupid,” Napoleon says. “Not with you. What are you thinking?”

Markos laughs at his shoulder as they stare out at the city around them, laughs at the poplar fluff falling and laughs at the snow and laughs at the world they somehow have survived in for so long. “We used to watch the snow falling from the Kremlin,” he says eventually, when Napoleon’s hands squeeze his. “Or the poplar fluff, in the spring. We used to stand at the windows and watch.”

He feels Napoleon’s hand gently cup his jaw, and then his gaze is torn away from the grey London winter. He’s back in their kitchen, Napoleon looking up at him with a soft expression. “I bet London winters don’t really compare at all, do they?” he asks quietly.

“No, Cowboy,” Illya murmurs. “They really don’t.”

Napoleon hums. “You miss Moscow? Russia?”

Illya nods helplessly. “I don’t- the SVR was- you know what that was, but Moscow was my home. Russia was my home. And I still love it, even after everything.” A shudder runs through his body. “Is that wrong? Should I hate my country?”

“Oh, Peril, I think you will love Russia for the rest of your life,” Napoleon says softly. “And that’s okay. You can love Russia and still hate the people who used you like they did. You can love Russia and still want it to be better than it is.”

Illya breathes out. “It has been so long since Moscow was my home, in normal sense of word. I have not lived there for a decade. But…I still miss snow.”

Napoleon hums. He lets go of Illya’s hands, and there’s the familiar click of the kettle behind him. “Peppermint or ginger?” he asks.

“Peppermint,” Illya says. A moment later, and the smell of it slowly diffuses through the kitchen. Illya breathes in, and slowly settles back into himself just in time to take the mug from Napoleon. “Thank you, Cowboy.”

Napoleon stands next to him, staring out the kitchen window. “We need to buy Laika a new ball before she starts digging out the flowers again.”

Illya blinks. “Were you just speaking Russian?”

Napoleon looks a little sheepish. “I thought- does it help? I know I’m not fluent, but if speaking Russian instead of English around the house could- you know what, don’t listen to me, I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“No, it’s a good idea, Cowboy,” Illya says, slipping easily into Russian. He sips at his tea. “Even if you don’t brew tea for nearly long enough.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry that my taste buds haven’t been burnt off by years of terrible food in vacuum sealed packs and I don’t need my tea as black as sin to actually taste it properly.” Napoleon slips an arm around Illya’s waist. “The Institute has about fifty different types of tea just hidden away in the staff office. I’m sure I can find one there that you can actually taste without needing to brew it for an hour.”

Illya hums. “Maybe I can come with you. Try them for myself.”

He can see Napoleon start out of the corner of his eye. “If that’s what you’d like to do, Peril,” he says, his voice careful.

Illya rolls his eyes. “I know it was…I know I avoided that place.”

“You haven’t ever step foot in there, but yes, you could say that avoided it.” Illya feels Napoleon wince. “Sorry, that was unfair. I just…I never quite worked out why you never came in? And I didn’t want to ask, in case it blew up in my face.”

Illya breathes out. “It was the one thing you had that I had not touched, that did not belong to our past or anything we had done. I didn’t want to…mess it up, I suppose. Taint it, somehow.”

“And now?” Napoleon asks. He sips at his tea, like this is somehow a completely normal conversation that they’re having. Illya remembers the mug in his own hands, and the smell of peppermint slowly rising from it.

“Now?” Illya sips at his tea. “It all comes back to the stories, I suppose. That they don’t belong to us.” He shrugs. “I don’t know. With everything that has happened this past month, going into the Institute seems to be a very little thing now.”

Neither of them talk again until their mugs are long since empty, staring out of the window at the grey London winter. Finally, Napoleon stirs. “Gaby is coming for dinner,” he says, still in Russian. “What do you want?”

Illya hesitates. “Whatever you would like to cook, Cowboy.”

Napoleon hums. “Are you saying that because you don’t actually care, or because there are too many options and you can’t choose?” Illya stays silent, and it’s answer enough for Napoleon. “Okay, how about this, then? Pick one out of beef stroganoff, Ottolenghi chicken or…grilled tuna. All with sides, of course.”

“We have everything for each of them in the fridge?” Illya asks, half to himself. Sometimes he’s convinced that Napoleon has some sort of magic, with the way he can pull some things out of the pantry and turn it into an incredible meal. “Beef stroganoff, then.”

“I’ll see if I can get it closer to your mother’s this time.” Napoleon takes their mugs and puts them in the sink. “Are you sure that there wasn’t some sort of secret ingredient in there? Something she snuck in when you weren’t paying attention?” He presses a kiss to Illya’s cheek as he goes past him for the pantry. “Is it a specific type of mustard? Vodka?”

“Put vodka in my stroganoff and you’re sleeping on the couch,” Illya mutters. “And for the hundredth time, I don’t know. You know I wasn’t allowed near the stove as a child.”

“Maybe it’s a rule that should be reinstated,” Napoleon says, a smirk curling his lips as he starts pulling supplies from the pantry. “Seeing as you have set the fire alarm off more times than I can even remember.” He passes Illya a handful of mushrooms. “Chop these up into slices, please.”

It becomes easier and easier to move around each other in the kitchen, pieces slowly slotting back into place. Illya pulls out the chess board as Napoleon puts the stroganoff on a low heat and leaves it to simmer, and he draws out the game just to watch Napoleon struggle, a grin slowly finding its way onto his lips.

“Stop drawing the torture out,” Napoleon begs as he gets himself into another situation he knows Illya will let him out of just to watch him squirm. He leans across the table. “Mercy, Peril, I beg you.”

Illya shifts a bishop. “It’s more fun this way,” he says, a wicked grin on his face.

Napoleon leans forwards more, tilting his head in that way he knows catches Illya’s eye, exposes the long column of his throat. “Anything I can do to beg for mercy?” he asks, his voice a low purr.

Illya’s eyes darken. “I don’t know, Cowboy,” he answers, his voice low and rough. “What do you have in mind?”

Napoleon gets up and circles the table, standing over Illya. He traces a line down Illya’s cheek with one finger, just catching his lower lip for a moment. “I have some ideas.”

Illya surges up, one hand fisting in Napoleon’s shirt and the other at the back of his neck as he pulls him into a searing kiss. Napoleon straddles Illya’s lap, hands clutching at his shoulders as he kisses him back.

This isn’t the gentleness of the past few days since they met halfway on the bank of the Seine, the touches and caresses to remind themselves that they’re still here. There’s no carefulness here, no hesitation in the way that Illya sucks a bruise into Napoleon’s neck, how Napoleon has half his shirt unbuttoned with frantic hands before they even make it out of the kitchen.

It’s new, but it’s familiar as well. They fall into bed together laughing helplessly, Illya stealing kisses as he pushes Napoleon’s shirt off his shoulders, Napoleon stealing them back as he pushes Illya back onto the bed. They know the maps of each other, how to make each other laugh or moan or whimper at just a touch.

The doorbell rings just as Napoleon is buttoning up his shirt. Gaby is already waiting at the foot of the stairs as he runs down, shirt lopsided in his rush. She arches a brow. “Having fun?”

“Don’t try to embarrass me, you’ve seen me naked a dozen times over the years and in far more compromising positions than this,” Napoleon says, fixing his shirt and throwing a jumper on. “Hello, darling. How are you?”

“All the better now that I can smell whatever is on the stove,” Gaby says. She shrugs. “The international intelligence community is quiet right now. Almost like something gave them a bit of a shock.”

Napoleon shakes his head. “Nope, I’m trying very hard to not think about the stories that people tell about us out there. Please don’t bring them up.”

“They’re still out there,” Gaby says. She pulls out a few wine glasses and gives Napoleon a questioning look.

“Just a bit with dinner, there’s a nice red on the counter.” Napoleon checks on the simmering pot. “I know they’re still out there, Gaby. But believing that they were my responsibility- _our_ responsibility, is partly what got us into this mess in the first place. I’m trying really hard to believe that it’s not up to me. I did the best that I could in the moment, as did Illya, and what people take from the records of that is up to them. I have to believe that, Gaby.”

Gaby hums. “Illya did try to explain the death of the author concept to me, but I get the feeling he didn’t quite understand at the time.”

“It’s never bothered him as much as it’s bothered me,” Napoleon admits. “What our legacy is, what people do because of us. But he’s trying to understand, which is what’s important. Just as I’m trying to understand what he’s been through and what that means to him.”

“Cute, Cowboy,” Illya says as he comes into the kitchen. His hair is still ruffled, jumper a little creased, and he smooths it down with a blush as Gaby smirks at him. “Hello, chop shop girl. World still standing?”

“Same as always,” Gaby answers, pressing a kiss to his cheek. She reaches out and smooths down a tuft of his hair. “Having fun, I see.”

“Stop teasing,” Napoleon says, swatting at her with a wooden spoon. “Come taste this, Peril, tell me what secret ingredient I’m missing.”

Illya rolls his eyes, but comes over and takes the spoon from Napoleon anyway.

0-o-0-o-0

Gaby has just pushed her plate away, looking like she’s all but ready to fall asleep at the table, when a sharp buzzing cuts through the kitchen. “Your phone, Peril,” Napoleon says, pulling his own out of his pocket to check it.

Illya grabs his from the coffee table. “Hello? Yes, this is Kuryakin.”

Napoleon watches as a frown furrows his brow. “Yes, that is correct. No, I don’t know what the teams carried out after my team and I left.” He pauses. “I’m surprised the Americans kept with my outline as far as they did, then. Yes, I did negotiate the shared outline and mission that was agreed on.”

“What mission?” Gaby mouths at Napoleon. Napoleon just shrugs, not taking his eyes off Illya’s face.

His frown has deepened now. “Yes, I recognise the name. Pakistan in 2014. She recommended me for what?”

There’s a long pause. The frown slowly changes on Illya’s face to something that Napoleon knows means he’s interested but trying not to show it. “And this is in London, correct? Yes, yes I know that site. Yes, I know Verne as well. He is heading the negotiation, then?”

“Negotiation?” Gaby whispers. “Do you have any idea what this is?”

“Not a clue,” Napoleon murmurs back. “Peril?”

Illya waves a hand at him. He’s listening intently, all but pressing the phone to his ear. “I understand. Can I have some time to think about it?” He pauses. “Yes, of course. I’ll call you back tomorrow. Thank you.”

He hangs up, and then stares at the phone for a long moment. “Peril?” Napoleon asks again. “What was all that about?”

“That was Ed Martinez,” Illya says slowly, still looking down at his phone. “He’s the head strategist for northern Africa with NATO. They have…a situation developing in Egypt.” He looks up at Napoleon and Gaby. “He wants me to step in. Help negotiate suitable outcome. Based here in London, he said, and no fieldwork at all. I would be a consultant. I wouldn’t have to leave an office if I didn’t want to.”

“What was this mission you mentioned?” Gaby asks. “Is it something to do with this?”

“When Dmitri and I were out in Syria, we came across three groups of special forces stuck at a crossroads over missions with shared targets.” Illya huffs a brief laugh. “Both literally and metaphorically. Israeli, Iraqi and American. None of them were going to get anywhere, so I stepped in and…negotiated a shared mission and plan. I didn’t stick around to see if they were going to stay to it.” He shrugs. “Apparently they did. Apparently, word has gotten around.”

“So they want you to come in as a negotiator?” Gaby asks. “A consultant? What do you think?”

Illya looks up at Napoleon, twisting his phone around in his hands. “I- I was good at what we did. I was very good, and not because Oleg made me into that. And I don’t want to go back to being an agent, I can’t do that anymore, but…there are other things, between a civilian and an agent.”

“Like a consultant,” Gaby supplies. She leans back in her chair. “Sounds like you have the perfect job opportunity.”

Illya watches Napoleon, his eyes not leaving his face. “Cowboy?”

“I’ll admit, I don’t want you to be at risk again,” Napoleon says cautiously. “I’m not really a fan of you ever getting shot at again. But you were, and obviously still are, very good at your job, and you’re right, there are a lot of different things you can do that don’t involve being an agent. Especially consultant jobs that are in London and involve absolutely no guns at all.” He lets out a breath. “I want you to be happy, Peril, and I want you to do what will make you happy. If this is it, if using your own talents to help other people again is what makes you happy, then I think you should go for it.”

Illya is staring at him. “What, Peril?” Napoleon asks, a sudden shiver of unease running through him. “Do you not want me to say yes? Do you want some sort of excuse to say no to Ed?”

Illya shifts. “I- no. I thought you wouldn’t want me doing this.”

Napoleon is floored. “I- _what_? It’s not up to me, Peril! You do what makes you happy!”

Illya shrugs, sliding into a seat opposite him at the table. “You wanted out of that life. Completely out of it. And after you left, I…I wasn’t going to stay at UNCLE anymore, risk my life whilst you were here.” He rubs at his face. “I…I didn’t want to die to the job anymore. I had something. I had _you_. But so much of myself was that job. And being back in Moscow, being back in Lubyanka, I know it was hell but it was also something I could do. Something I was good at, and on my own terms, not just what Oleg tried to beat into me.”

He looks at Napoleon, reaching out and taking his hand. “I can do better,” he says quietly. “I can _be _better. And I’d like to try.”

“Then you should try,” Napoleon says. “I know I wanted out of that life, I know I was desperate at the end to leave, but…I am so goddamn sorry that I made you feel like you had to do exactly what I did and that you didn’t have any other options. I got caught up, I suppose, in trying to live outside of UNCLE and all that meant, and never even stopped to consider if you wanted to do the same.” He squeezes Illya’s hand. “I’m sorry, Peril.”

“Well, this is very touching,” Gaby interrupts over the rim of her wine glass. “Is there dessert?”

Napoleon laughs, and the moment breaks and falls quietly away. He doesn’t let go of Illya’s hand. “For you, darling? Always.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've known from the beginning of this story that Illya would end up going somewhat back towards what he did at UNCLE (though of course he's completely safe and not being shot at anymore), but only once he realises that he can do this on his own terms, and that he is good at what he did not just because of Oleg, but because of himself.
> 
> There will be an epilogue on Monday, and on Monday I will also publish the first chapter of the coffee shop AU that is only technically a coffee shop au in that it's set in a coffee shop, and less a coffee shop au in that the latter half of the story is pure angst. There may also be the first chapter of a Witcher fic, depending on if I work up the courage to publish it.
> 
> As always, comments and kudos are much appreciated. It's a difficult time right now, so please remember to take care of yourselves, whether that's out on the streets or staying at home. Love you all.


	27. The Author

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Final exam is done. I guess that means I'm officially finished with university? And once everything is marked, etc, I'll have a masters degree in chemistry? I'm honestly not sure completely how to feel about this, but I've been waiting to finish to finally publish the last chapter of this story, so here goes.
> 
> I'm also not going anywhere now this is done- the first chapter of my new TMFU coffee shop AU has also just gone up, as well as the first chapter of a Witcher fic that grew out of wishing there were more horses in TMFU, because what is the point of having an insane amount of very specific knowledge if not to shoehorn it into fic?
> 
> Anyway, here's the final chapter. Thank you all so much for reading.

Napoleon only remembers the Hamilton tickets when a reminder pops up on his phone, a week before the date emblazoned across the tickets. It seems like a year ago when he bought them, alone in the Institute library and grasping at straws to try and fix something he’d barely understood.

He’s been busy at work recently, trying to set up this fund whilst helping René and managing his lectures and seminars and workshops, but Illya has been by most days for lunch, and Napoleon has spent some of the best hours of the past year showing Illya those hidden spots in the Institute that he loves. Gaby met them in the café of the National Portrait Gallery one lunchtime, and they spent a good couple of hours watching people stream past them, just going about their lives.

The weight of the art around them saturates the ground they walk on, settles comfortably around their shoulders. The legacy of the people that came before them, stretching back thousands of years, watches from high up on the walls as Napoleon and Illya walk back through the Institute hand in hand.

They run into the Victoria Theatre a week later under the pouring rain, shedding water in the ornate forum with helpless laughter on their lips. They slide into aisle seats towards the back of the theatre, a young couple on the other side whispering together in anticipation.

The lights go down, and Napoleon grips Illya’s hand.

_Let me tell you what I wish I’d known, when I was young and filled with glory._

_You have no control who lives, who dies, who tells your story._

What they know is this.

The story of every scar and mark that litters their bodies. The twists and turns that led them all the way to this moment. The fact that they would do it again, in a heartbeat, to make it here.

What they wish they had known, when they were young and scared, is this.

It is all going to be right in the end.

Theirs has been a slow slide of inevitability ever since a computer disk was tossed across the room, ever since a hotel balcony in Italy and a tentative partnership that neither of them expected to become this. Their stories have spread out from the back streets of Berlin, traded out in the hallways of the CIA, whispered from the marble walls of the Kremlin until everybody knows.

Everyone has heard of Solo and Kuryakin. Their stories are passed on across borders and through no man’s land, spreading out until there are countless moments that change because of a whisper in the dead of night, a reminder that there is a better way, that it’s been done before, that there are two people out there who have been where they are now standing, have made the hard decision, and are somewhere out there on the other side.

Solo and Kuryakin are a legend, built out of desperate moments by people trying to survive an unwinnable war, designed as a horror story for those on the other side. _Look_, they say, trading the stories between them, the most valuable ammunition they could ever have. _Look what they have done._

_Look what we could do._

Solo and Kuryakin are a legend.

Napoleon and Illya are laughing as they pull their coats on, chatting to the young couple sat next to them in the theatre as Napoleon wrestles with his scarf and Illya swats his hands away to fix it himself.

It’s still raining outside when they finally leave. The sounds of London are muted around them by the pattering of rain, the lights of the city a kaleidoscope of colours reflected in arcs of water sprayed up by black cabs going past. Illya turns up the collar of his coat, and Napoleon tugs him closer under an umbrella.

They walk home, the soft yellow lights of the London streetlamps showing the way.

0-o-0-o-0

** _‘The Author is Still Alive’: Professor Napoleon Solo on the history of art, stories and what it takes to understand the legacies left behind_ **

_‘What is a legacy? As Lin-Manuel Miranda, the creator of Hamilton, says, it’s planting seeds in a garden that you never get to see. Something that you hope means enough to an audience who you can’t predict, enough that it will be continued long after we are gone. And what is art, but a legacy left behind for us to understood? It is a story that you hope someone else keeps telling._

_The history of art is the history of stories. A love letter, a note of caution or a brand of defiance, or a message to someone somewhere down the line that we have been here before, and that this time, we should do better._

_As I talk, remember that. Remember that every piece of art I show you is a legacy left behind by someone trying to be understood, and it is our responsibility to interpret and find meaning in their art. It is our responsibility to decide what to do with the stories left to us._

_So, with all that in mind, let me tell you a story.’_

This is the triumphant beginning of the series of lectures headed by the Cortauld Institute, comprised of the leading academics in art history, and they set the tone for a riveting few hours on art, stories, and what it means to leave behind a legacy. Professor Napoleon Solo of the Cortauld Institute has risen swiftly to notoriety amongst academia in the past few years, bringing with him a new understanding of history and a refreshing emphasis on the teaching of the next generation. He delivers this lecture with the gravitas of someone who really knows what they’re talking about, and the passion of someone who deeply loves what he’s saying.

After the lecture, I sat down with Professor Solo at the reception. The life of a painter is often forgotten in favour of his art, though there are a rare few whose artistic genius is mentioned in the same breath as the personal circumstances it was born in. Vincent van Gogh will be unlikely to ever escape the tale of his ear, but legacies, however sordid and tragic, are to be understood. This is what my conversation with Napoleon Solo, eventually, leads to.

We sit down at the reception, held in Somerset House. Academics and notable donors are interspersed with students, able to be here thanks to new grants made available by the Cortauld Institute to encourage the spread of art history to more disadvantaged areas of the country. That is also the purpose of the lectures being televised, available on the BBC. It is this that I first ask Professor Solo about.

“These ideas been a long time coming,” Solo says. “One of the issues with the arts that I’ve seen in my years here is the idea of elitism, and the problem of accessibility. With a televised series, available to everyone in the country and even further, then there is a much higher chance of a student realising that this is something they love. And the grants available through the Cortauld Institute not only help current students to thrive, but prospective students to get the chances they need to study here.” He smiles wryly. “No point preaching about accessibility and not following through.”

It seems like Solo is serious about providing a route to art history for any student that wants it. I ask him where this came from.

“I had an unusual path to academia,” Solo says after a long moment where’s he’s obviously thinking hard. “I don’t want anyone else, if I can help it, to come here through a path like mine. If people want to study here then they should be able to, regardless of class or money or where they’re from.”

“And are grants the way to do this?” I ask. “The system in this country does allow for most students to get the education that they want.”

“Grants don’t just help to pay off university fees,” Solo replies. “The work that the Institute does tries not to focus on that, actually. Accessibility isn’t nominally about paying the nine thousand a year for university, it begins earlier than that. In rural areas of this country it is almost impossible for some people to get to major cities to just go to a gallery, let alone study art history. And this only serves to contribute to the classism that so many people see in the arts.”

“Historically, art has been the preserve of the elite, those with time enough on their hands to practice and learn,” I point out, remembering some of what he talked about when discussing Renaissance artists only an hour ago. “And dependent on the labour of others, quite often slaves or women, to give them the leisure time to learn.”

Solo looks mildly impressed. “You were listening. But there is a distinction between the history of a piece of work and what most people know about it. Van Gogh, for example, is seen as one of the best twentieth century painters. His works hang in all the major galleries out there. And yet the only thing that most people know about him-”

“-he cut off his own ear,” I supply.

“Exactly,” Solo says. “The legacy that most people remember of him is that of the tortured artist. The idea that mental instability is a justifiable price to pay for art. Yet Van Gogh produced some of his arguably best works whilst being treated. It’s known that one medication he was given by a psychiatrist was extracted from foxglove, which we know the many times he painted the doctors treating him, one of whom held a foxglove. The active chemical in foxglove has a side effect if overdosed on slightly. It makes the person experience the colour yellow a little more intensely than usual. So, without Van Gogh seeking out treatment, we wouldn’t have the five sunflowers that we have now.” Solo smiles. “There are stories behind every well-known piece of art that would change how they are viewed, if only people knew them.”

“And that would make such a difference?” I ask.

“The history of art is the history of stories,” Solo says with a wry smile, echoing his opening words. “Hopefully what this lecture series can do is allow people to get a glimpse of that.”

“And why is that so important?” I ask.

Solo thinks about this question for a long moment. “I think that art teaches compassion,” he says eventually. “And I think that compassion and kindness are the most radical things we can have against the ignorance and apathy that threatens us. That’s what stories are for.”

They tell you about this, in classes and then later during coffee breaks, the moment when an interview runs itself and nothing, not your hours of preparation or the questions memorized in your head, can stray it from its unforeseen course. The best you can do is hold on and keep asking.

We begin to talk about stories, and what a legacy means.

Solo’s lecture has made it abundantly clear that this is a more complicated subject than most people realise. “Art doesn’t exist in a vacuum,” Solo says as we talk more about the theory he introduced in the lecture, the death of the author. “It is political, and human, and it would be ignorance at best to discard where it was made. But influence and ownership are two very different things. We cannot own the art we make; the very act of making it, of giving it to other people and making it art, relinquishes that ownership. It is now up to the audience to decide what to do with it.”

“History is full of people wilfully misinterpreting stories to suit themselves,” I point out. “Is that the author’s responsibility?”

Solo is silent for a very long moment. “I have to believe that it isn’t,” he says eventually, and his voice has quietened so that I have to lean in to hear him. “If it is, then what could anyone do but sit in an empty room and try not to touch anything? No, we do the best we can, and we hand the stories on. We give it to someone else, and we hope that it means enough to them to do a little bit of good.”

There’s a story there to be told. As a journalist with decades of experience, I can tell when there’s something beneath the surface. And I’m about to open my mouth and ask when Solo, surprisingly, beats me to it.

“There are stories that everybody knows. Ones that are told again and again, out of hope that this time, they’ll change something for the people listening. I’d like to think that, most of the time, they do. I’d certainly like to think that my stories do, but I no longer have responsibility over the ones I was once a part of. They don’t belong to me. They belong to anyone who is listening to them and trying to make sense of something impossible to understand, anyone who takes that story and hands it on, holding it for a brief moment before passing ownership on again.”

“The author is dead,” I say. I am desperate to ask for more, but I hold my tongue. He has a story to tell, but I can hardly demand it from him.

Solo smiles wryly. “Actually, if you go further with the theory, then no. There always has to be an author, after all, someone to hand the story on. In a sense, the author isn’t dead. If we take that theory to its logical conclusion, then it’s impossible for the author to be dead. The author is still alive: the author is you.”

The author is you.

The author is me. The author is you, is every person who watches these lectures, who wanders through a gallery, who interacts with art and passes it on because that is why we write and paint and sing and create. The author is every person who looks up Van Gogh after reading this and who tell people, later, _this is why we have the sunflowers_.

The author is Napoleon Solo, who stands in front of a crowded room and asks us to listen to his stories. It is husband Illya Kuryakin, who was in the audience and tells me later that Solo had been nervous about this for months, though it never showed. The author is neither of them, as they retire together to a quiet corner and I go in search of other people to talk to.

I am reminded, as I write these final words, of what Solo told us at the end of the lecture. It resonates even more now as I think about stories, and what it means to leave behind a legacy.

‘Remember. These are their stories. To understand why we pass it on, we must first understand who is listening.’

And so, the story passes on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This story has been the hardest thing I've ever written. It wasn't even meant to be written, but I wrote myself into an emotional continuity plot hole in the previous story and realised I needed a whole other story to write my way out of it. When I first realised this, I thought this story might be 40k, 60k at max (and I can hear everyone who's stuck with me for a while laughing at that. I know. I have a problem and it's called not being able to leave a story alone).
> 
> Anyway, I never thought I was going to write this story. And I never thought it would grow into this, but I'm so so glad that it has, because I am so proud of it. And it was all of you who kept me writing- people reading and leaving kudos, and coming back chapter after chapter to comment, over and over again. Hsg, Prinkipas, Lettie, kiwiibird, Yavemiel, Weepingwolfswood, Izz, ghoulvoided, gevr, paulah_GJ, and everyone else who has commented on this story, you are amazing and I'm so thankful for you all sticking around to read this story.
> 
> Lastly, this story would absolutely not exist without somedrunkpirate. They have listened to me rant my way out of plotholes and into some sort of emotional and narrative coherency, and have helped make this story into something I am proud of. Your friendship and support (and urging to write more and more angst) has always been invaluable, and I love you so much for it.
> 
> Thank you all so much.


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